


Build Me Up, Buttercup

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural, The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: Adventure, Chases, Crossover, Danger, Escapes, F/M, Female Heroine - Freeform, Gen, Humor, Intrigue, Miracles, Monsters, Possession, Rescues, Revenge, True Love, captures, duels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: A new order has been established, and new countries to go along with it, leaving the continent divided by rulers with conflicting goals: one wants to cement their place as leader of the underworld, while the other will do anything to stop it and return everything to its former state. And once more, the responsibility for saving the world has fallen upon the Winchesters’ shoulders. Good thing they’ll have lots of help along the way.





	1. You Got It

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: This is being written for some of my loyal readers who liked the first part (which was intended to be a one-shot) and asked me to continue on; having said that, it's my insomnia and/or writer's block buster so it will only be updated sporadically.
> 
> [See end of chapter one for Author's Notes on the story behind the story/what to expect]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy’s grandfather visits and begins to read a story, one about a pair of monster-hunting brothers, their apprentice, and what just might be a hell of an adventure on the horizon.

 

 

The faint sound of music floated into the hallway as she approached the door, and it made her sigh - her son was almost over the flu, but the lack of classic rock blasting through their home was a clear sign that he still wasn’t quite over the hump.

"Hey honey,” she said, opening the door then crossing over to the bed, and he muted his music without being asked - _another_ telltale sign he wasn’t a hundred percent.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You feeling any better?” she asked.

“A little bit.”

She laid her hand across the young boy’s forehead, then leaned over and gave it a kiss before walking around the end of the bed and over to the far wall, pulling the curtains open to let some of the morning sun shine into the room, eliciting a bit of a grimace from the kid.

“Guess what? Your grandfather’s here,” she said, perching on the side of the bed next to her son.

“Ugh, Mom - can’t you tell him I’m sick?”

“You’re sick - that’s why he’s _here_.”

“He’ll do that thing with my hair. I hate that.”

“Maybe he won’t,” she replied with a touch of a sing-song voice.

“Heeeeey!”

The cheerful voice and a bit of a bang as the opened door swung back and bumped the wall caused their heads to turn. The older man, his hat still on and his coat flung over his arm, took a few long strides that put him by the bed in seconds.

“How’s the sickly, huh?” he asked, immediately ruffling the boy’s hair.

The boy gave his mother the side-eye of the century and she tried but failed to hide a tiny smile.

“I think I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, standing and leaving as her father laid a small wrapped package he’d had hidden under his coat onto the bed.

“I brought you a special present.”

“What is it?”

“Open it!”

The kid snatched it up, a bit of spark returning to his demeanor as he immediately began tearing off the paper - then the spark waned.

“A _book_?”

“That’s right!” his grandfather replied, then gestured around the room. “When I was your age, all these gadgets were called _books_. And this is a _special_ book - it was the book _my_ father used to read to me when I was sick, and I used to read it to _your_ mother, and today I’m gonna read it to _you_.”

The kid seemed to consider this proposal. “Has it got any action in it?” he asked warily.

“Are you kidding? Punching, fighting, shooting, monsters, possession, torture, revenge, chases, escapes, true love, miracles!”

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” the kid acquiesced, now turning the muted music off completely. “I’ll try and stay awake.”

“Oh, well, thank you very much, very nice of you, the vote of confidence is overwhelming,” his grandfather replied in a wry but loving tone, taking off his hat and setting it on the bedside table.

The old man donned reading glasses, cleared his throat, then flipped open the book as he leaned back, settling into the chair and reading aloud.

* * *

.

## *~* THE HUNTER BRIDE *~*  
by R. ROSEN

##     - CHAPTER ONE -    

## Dean was born in a closed-off town, though he grew up on the wide-open road.  His favorite pastimes were listening to classic rock, tinkering around with his muscle car

.

* * *

“Is ‘muscle car’ a euphemism?”

At the interruption, a single arched brow became visible over the top of the book’s cover.

“How do you… are you old enough to know what that word means? And 'muscle car’ just means 'muscle car’.”

“I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Another clearing of the throat. Then, slightly louder:

“ _With his muscle car…_ ”

* * *

.

## and tormenting the newest hunting and research apprentice at his family’s business. He knew her name, but he never called her by it.

.

* * *

“Isn’t that a wonderful beginning?” the man asked with a sentimental smile.

“Yeah. It’s really good,” the kid replied flatly.

* * *

.

## Nothing gave Dean as much pleasure as ordering the apprentice around.

## “Hey, sweetheart - make sure you polish up Baby for me. I wanna see this gorgeous mug shining in it before we head out tomorrow morning.”

## Dean slid a worn shop cloth and half-empty can of wax down one of the library tables, where it knocked into an open book before traveling on to hit the edge of a notepad and coming to a stop.

## The young woman writing notes frowned slightly at the errant mark her pen made due to the jostling, but she didn’t look up at Dean as she responded.

## “You got it.”

##  _You got it_ \- that was all she ever said to Dean. She spoke at length with his brother Sam, with their colleagues. Even her clipped questioning style of potential witnesses or suspects was more than she’d ever said to him.

## “Hey, sweetheart - make sure all these are cleaned, too.”

## She paused in her current task, cleaning a shotgun, and turned her head, staring over at the three or four handguns Dean had just placed in the chair beside her. She just blinked a few times, barely met his eye, then looked back to the shotgun and nodded.

## “Please,” Dean tacked on.

## “You got it."

## That day he was amazed to discover that when she was saying "You got it”, what she meant was:

##  _I hate you_

## And even _more_ amazing was the day he realized he truly hated her back.

## She passed by him in the kitchen, on her way to the refrigerator, as he was standing at the metal island, chopping up tomatoes and prepping other various ingredients for that night’s dinner.

## “Sweetheart!” he called out, waiting til she’d just barely stepped over the threshold to head back to the war room.

## She froze and visibly stiffened. Her grip on the water bottle she held got so tight he actually heard the plastic give. The cold glare she leveled at him as she turned would’ve iced even the most fiery of demons.

## Dean was only deterred a fraction of a second before he glanced around, and then up to the rack of chef’s sundry within arm’s reach right above him.

## “Hand me that ladle?”

## She slowly walked over to him, the daggers she was shooting into his eyes never waning, and she stopped millimeters in front of him, almost coming into contact.

## And without looking she reached up and to the side, grasping the ladle and removing it from the hook before letting it drop with a loud _CLINK_ onto the metal surface next to his cutting board.

##  _“You. Got. It,”_ she hissed through gritted teeth, and a very forced, clench-jawed, thin-lipped, clearly fake, not-quite-smile came to her lips.

## Dean sneered back.

## The next morning, Sam was coaching from the side of the room in the basement that served as his workout space while she and Dean practiced fighting techniques.

## It was when Dean had laughed in her face during her third attempt at pinning him that she broke her months-long habit of barely speaking to him - and with a _vengeance_ , letting out such a stream of curses sprinkled with smatterings of scathing _sweetheart_ s, that it made Sam’s cheeks grow pink and his eyes grow wide.

## Dean hit the mat hard and with a loud grunt at her fourth - and what turned out to be her final - attempt.

## As they landed in such a haphazard manner, so it was that after their foreheads struck, necks snapping back briefly before slamming forward again with the recoil, and with sweaty limbs entangled, uttering heaving breaths, their faces met.

## Dean gave her a wink before letting his head continue its trajectory, planting his lips onto hers.

.

* * *

“Hold it, hold it.”

Wizened eyes met younger, clearly skeptical ones.

“What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Where’s all that stuff you told me?”

The old man’s eyebrows raised as the kid’s eyes narrowed for his follow-up:

"Is this a _kissing_ book?"

“Wait, just wait,” began the old man, holding up a hand.

“Well when does it get good?!” the kid demanded.

“Keep your shirt on, lemme read.”

* * *

.

## Following a well-executed knee-to-groin maneuver which made both brothers groan, a decision was made.

## The apprentice had no real money to speak of, but she still packed up her belongings and left the bunker, hoping one of the contacts she’d made through her tireless work would give her a place to crash, perhaps even take her on as a research assistant.

## Sam had tried to talk her out of it, said he hoped she’d reconsider.

## Dean had hoped the large outer door would hit her in the ass on her way out.

.

* * *

“It was a very emotional time for all of them,” the old man pointed out.

“I don’t _belieeeeve_ this,” the kid replied, flopping back onto his pillows with a sigh.

* * *

 

* * *

 

* * *

 .

##  **As you've likely noticed, this is a cross-over with "The Princess Bride"...  
**

.... mostly the book, but of course the movie, too. And it's gonna read like an AU:Fantasy. For now. That's all I'm gonna say about that [wink].

_**.  
Author's Note #1** : This was originally a one-shot related to [**that sweetheart of a hill I'm gonna die on**](http://seenashwrite.tumblr.com/post/159358473320/sweetheart-dean-said-looking-right-into-her)._

_**Author’s Note #2** : If you need a “TPB” refresher, start **[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEy5-ysvbKc).**_

_~~**Author’s Note #3** : The count minus the “pages” is in the 700 ballpark, and I unfortunately deleted the text. Images won’t happen in subsequent chapters, like I say - this was meant to be a one-shot but had a lot of peeps requesting more, etc., etc., blah-blah-blah, apologias. ~~  _ **EDITED 27 Jan 2018 - Images gone! I found the document! _  
_**

_**Author’s Note #4** : YES there is copious amounts of borrowing from the book/movie, that’s what parodies *do*, BUT!!! This will differ in that NO "TPB" CHARACTERS beyond the Mom, the Grandfather, and the Kid are featured, and the plot line is, I’d estimate, >50% different despite various scene recreations._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	2. An Angel, A Demon, And A Vampire Walk Into A Garage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean struggles with his new reality - and a familiar trio arrives on the scene to shake it up.

* * *

.

Flipping to the next page, the old man went on.

.

* * *

.

## “Dean!” Sam exclaimed. "What if something happens to her? I’m afraid we’ll never see her again!”

## “Offffff _course_ you are,” Dean replied with a sly grin, having not missed the way his brother had been stealing glances and blushing around their - he had to admit, quite intelligent and pretty - former apprentice for months.

## “She has _always_ said she would drop _everything_ for us if we needed her, that she’d be there for us, and _you_ had to go and—”

## “How can you be so sure she’d come through for us? She hated my guts, Sam. _Absolute pure hate_ , right down to the knee in my junk, you think that happens every day!?”

## Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “To _you?!_ I haven’t got a _clue_ how many times that must’ve happened to you!”

## As fate would have it, Sam was right - not the crotch thing, the first thing. Their one-time hunter-in-training never made it to her destination. It seemed that during her travels, she decided to investigate a case she’d gotten wind of and ended up on a ferry that was attacked by vampirates, who never leave captives alive.

## And so when the Winchesters got word that she’d been murdered—

.

* * *

.

“Murdered by vampirates is good!” exclaimed the kid.

.

* * *

.

## —a frustrated Sam fought with his brother before quickly packing up only what he needed, and leaving the bunker, driving through the night, neither eating nor sleeping - not even reading any of The Lore - for days.

## Dean ate an entire large pizza with extra mushrooms and their accompanying bread sticks, gave shots of coconut rum a try, ate three bags of Doritos, vomited down the hallway, then indulged in a ten-hour porn marathon, all interspersed with the occasional forkful of apple pie straight out of the tin, and a case and a half of beer.

## The first day.

## “I will never rum again,” Dean muttered to himself, just before letting loose one final belch and passing out.

## More than a few years came and went, during which something very strange and inexplicable was happening to their world - and for the Winchesters, this was saying quite a lot.

## Sam had not spoken with Dean since the night he’d left, though he kept tabs on not only his brother but the ever-evolving drama within and amongst the various supernatural factions.

## Without the brothers’ influence on otherworldly doings, politics began playing more of a role than they had in the past. Contracts and treaties in place for years, possibly _centuries_ even, were regularly challenged. Deals were made under tables. Established powers were pushed out - or murdered - to make way for new sovereigns. And one self-appointed monarch in particular had recently come out on top.

## In the front yard of a newly-constructed mansion (nearly a _castle_ , truth be told) that was quite out-of-place in a modest province of the country called Florin, people were packed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. They were waiting to hear an announcement from their ruler Rowena, the once self-proclaimed Queen Regent of Hell, current self-proclaimed monarch of Florin, and it was a very special announcement, indeed - she was about to reveal her husband-to-be.

## Trumpets blared and the crowd hushed as Rowena stepped out onto the large balcony several floors above the front door of her earthly pseudo-castle, flanked by members of her coven.

## “My perky peasants! In just one month, it will be the tenth anniversary of what I know has been the happiest times of your putrid existence - the day I started my reign. And at sundown on that day, I shall wed a wee lad who was once a commoner, like yourselves. But I suspect you won’t find him so common now, will you? Would you like to meet him?”

## The crowd roared - many due to the threats being whispered to them by Rowena’s minions who were sprinkled throughout - but most were excited for the reveal because it put them that much closer to the buffet and ‘80s cover band awaiting them in the backyard. Plus, word was the pool had a slide.

## “People! I present to you my little Buttercup, the Crown Prince of Florin - Dean!”

## Dean gradually stepped into the crowd, walking slowly on a red carpet that stretched from the gazebo in the side yard, then across the circular drive, through at least twenty flower-laden archways, ultimately finding himself next to the gaudy, jewel-accented fountain that featured two sculpted cherubs pissing on each other instead of down into the basin. 

## The sneer on his face was locked-in tight, as was the shiny gold crown atop his head. Like Rowena, her coven, her bodyguards, her minions - and all the townspeople, as required by the new laws - he was dressed in clothing that was close to, but not quite hitting the mark of, something one might see on people living around the year 1700. The colors seemed too bold, the gold accoutrements too shiny, and his shoes all seemed to have heels.

## Dean looked at the crowd, actually a little envious - at least _they_ didn’t have to wear brocade tunics that felt more like dresses, and stupid tights that cramped his junk, and those damned heels. Even the bum who was perpetually wandering about the town square - or, to Rowena’s great disdain, lounging in front of her mansion - got to wear boots. On the other hand, they were worse off than he was in a lot of ways. Rowena had sent the entire continent back into a dark age. Not like _the_ Dark Ages, but close enough - the people were both literally and figuratively in the dark.

## After only a little less than a decade's worth of her spell-casting, it seemed like everyone, excepting those heading into this world-upending disaster with prior knowledge of the supernatural, had forgotten where they were and what time period they lived in. They simply accepted any modernity from Rowena and her crew as par for the course, just a royal’s life versus a peasant’s. Though her coven had provided a few changes of clothing for each person, handed out horses and cows like crazy, and worked their mojo to get crops to spring up right away, she’d cut off all utilities, drained every service station of gas, even shut down land lines, isolating everyone completely.

## And Dean had absolutely no idea _why_ , or what he could _do_ about it, especially without his friends. Without Sam. Hell, he’d have even taken help from what’s-her-face, though her getting ganked by vampirates still made him a bit giddy to imagine.

## But nevertheless, his emptiness consumed him. Although the new laws of the enchanted land gave Rowena the right to choose her groom, and despite what he suspected was an abundance of attempted spell-casting on him specifically by the coven, he did not love her.

## Dean gagged when he thought about the upcoming wedding night. He’d been drinking so much over the years - that is, the ones since Sam left, and the one during which he’d been stuck in Florin - he couldn’t even _get_ fully drunk anymore, so how he’d manage to get through it was beyond him. Didn’t matter that Rowena reassured him that it’d be the best night of his life due to her centuries of experience; after that tidbit, he actually _had_  thrown up.

## He would cheer himself by sneaking away at night - minus the tights - and would stay in the shadows of houses for a few miles til he could cut across the old mini-mall parking lot that was now occupied by grazing sheep, in order to reach his favorite place. Dean always took a deep breath once he’d entered, inhaling the comforting smell of motor oil and metal. Taking apart cars - or just _pieces_ of them - and putting them together again was his only remaining joy.

## And he was so focused on his task at hand, laying on his back, rolled underneath his latest project, that it didn’t register with him initially how unusual it was to hear another person’s voice that late at night, much less inside the abandoned garage.

## “A word, sir? We’re male models looking to pick up a little work, you happen to know of any runways around here?”

## “Nope, nothing for miles.”

## Then Dean frowned as he felt himself being yanked out from under the car, and thought he got a glimpse of someone familiar before everything went black.

## Crowley stood to the side, inspecting the knuckles of the fist he’d just used, while Gabriel helped lift the unconscious Dean, keeping him propped upright as Benny squatted a bit, then hoisted the passed-out prince up and over his shoulder.

## “You know, it really annoys me when you do that,” Gabriel said to Crowley. “I had a great zinger all ready to go: ‘ _Then there will be no one to hear you scream_ ’ - I mean, come _ON_.”

## “What’s that you’re doing, there?” asked Benny, watching as Crowley meandered around the garage, splashing little drops of something from a small bottle on the floor.

## “I’m leaving a clue behind for Mother’s hounds. A touch of Eau de Moose.”

## Benny and Gabriel shared a confused glance - Crowley saw their expressions when he turned back to them, then sighed before he explained.

## “Not an ounce of forethought between you. _That_ was watered-down fancy shampoo, one that’s not readily available around these parts now-a-days, but via my contacts, I happen to know an entire cases are whipped up by Rowena's little band of bitches and sent as peace offerings to the only thing standing between her and access to the last active hellmouth on the continent.”

## Benny and Gabriel stared at him blankly.

## “The kingdom just a hop-skip away? Guilder? Used to be Texas, Louisiana, New Mexico, _actual_  Mexico, whatnot? Where we’re headed shortly? Across that abyss of a bay that popped up, formerly known as Oklahoma?”

## No response.

## “Where the big little brother of our princess here–” Crowley gave Dean’s ass a sharp _WHAP_ that echoed through the room “–has set himself up on the throne? You lot are too dumb to breathe.”

## Crowley made his way out of the garage then, shaking his head.

## “Uh, vampire,” Gabriel pointed out, jabbing a thumb in Benny’s direction, then swinging it around to himself. “Angel. We don't exactly _need_ to have a lot of breathing happening.”

## They followed after Crowley, keeping behind buildings and speaking quietly, guided by a soft glow Gabriel let out of his eyes - not even worth a 100 watt bulb, as the coven’s double-downed stranglehold on the energy in and around Florin extended to demons and angels and any other creatures trapped in the their bubble.

## “So what, boss, idea is your mama will think Sam came and got Dean?” asked Benny.

## Crowley nodded. “And when Dean’s body is found on Guilder land—”

## “Whoa!” Benny exclaimed, stopping immediately.  “You never said anything about killin’ anybody.”

## Crowley whirled around to face him, angry. “I hired you to help me start a war. It’s a prestigious line of work with a long and glorious tradition.”

## “I just don’t think it’s right… killing Dean. Don’t ever seem to work, anyhow.”

## “Am I going mad, or did the word _think_ escape your lips?! You were not hired for your brains, you sharp-toothed bucket of gumbo!”

## “I agree with Benny,” said Gabriel, crossing his arms.

## “Oh, warped-wings has spoken! What happens to Dean is not your concern. _I’ll_ kill him!  And remember this, _never_ forget this - when I found you, you were so depleted of grace, you couldn’t even conjure strippers and candy!” Crowley turned back to Benny. “Then _you!_ Pale, munching on mangy, anemic animals, hopeless! Do you want me to send you to where you were, hiding in caves, in Purgatory?!”

## They continued on to the docks in silence, all climbing into the modest wooden boat that was powered only by a combination of wind in the sails and - mostly - Benny’s rowing. After they settled the unconscious Dean, Gabriel untied the line. Benny sat near the middle, picked up the oars and began to row, while Gabriel lit a small lantern near the bow.

## And Crowley pulled a flask from his jacket, leaned back, closed his eyes as he began sipping.

## Benny’s grip on the oars was tight and his jaw was clenched and twitching. Lack of full strength and diminished powers aside, Benny was a big dude. And while Gabriel still had enough juice to at least get _himself_ out of the vampire’s way should he opt to let the fists fly, he was pretty sure Crowley would get quite the beat-down if the muscle of their trio got angry enough.

## He didn’t want to kill Dean, either - would’ve been happier if it _was_ Crowley. Still, like it or not, they were going to need Crowley and his contacts to get hold of Sam. Then it was left to hope, that Sam hadn’t changed, that he would still go to bat for Dean, and if not Dean, then for the greater good in general - not terribly unlike the need for Benny to cool off and realize Crowley couldn’t be dealt with quite yet. They needed all the allies they could get, even the questionable ones.

## And so it was, Gabriel decided to do what we was best at: making a joke of a serious situation.

## “ _Yo-ho-ho_ , matey,” he said to Benny with a cautious grin. “So… any limericks you, ah… _know know know_?”

## Benny’s rowing slowed just long enough for him to shoot Gabriel a look that was somewhere between puzzled and annoyed, then got back on rhythm.

## “Whoo, tough crowd,” Gabriel said under his breath.

## A few moments of silence passed, and Gabriel scooted a little closer, spoke a little lower.

## “That Crowley, man, he sure can… _bitch_.”

## Silence for _another_ few moments, but then:

## “I bet it’s ‘cause his mama’s a _witch_.”

## Gabriel stifled his laughter, but a glance over his shoulder told him Crowley had caught the retort due to the exaggerated roll of his eyes, followed by a large pull off the flask.

## “Aw, he’s just a little sack of… _charm_ ,” Gabriel said.

## “Well I’m gonna help him buy the _farm_ ,” Benny shot back immediately.

## Now Gabriel snickered loudly, and Crowley spit most of his mouthful out, spraying it over the side of the boat but also sending a healthy amount down his chin and onto his jacket.

## “Enough!” he growled at them.

## “Hey Benny, should we choke him _dead_?”

## “’Fore we do, I best get _fed_.”

## Crowley cursed under his breath and went to drink more from his flask, only to find it empty. He chucked it into the water, then whipped his head around to face his companions - the flash of red in his eyes silenced them effectively. For several hours, the only sound was the swish of the paddles and the occasional gust of wind hitting the sail.

## The sky had been overcast but now handfuls of clouds dissipated. The moon and stars were bright enough that Gabriel extinguished the lantern. There were little waves to speak of, and they could now see the smog-topped crag looming in the distance, the ones rumored to make climbers insane - and they’d have to scale it, their captive in tow, in order to get to the Guilder border.

## “We’ll reach the cliffs by dawn,” Crowley commented, then frowned at Gabriel. “Why are you doing that?”

## He was referring both to Gabriel’s present location and the focused expression on his normally affable face - the archangel was still near the bow, but was facing backwards, looking behind them.

## “Making sure nobody’s following us,” he replied slowly.

## “That would be inconceivable,” Crowley declared.

## “Despite what you think, you’ll get caught - and when you are, hoo-boy, is Rowena gonna light into your sorry asses.”

## They all looked to the sound of Dean’s voice.

## “Hey, you’re up!” Benny exclaimed, a genuine smile on his face.

## Dean’s jaw dropped. “Benny?”

## “Yeah, brother. Good to see ya.”

## “Wish I could say the same - what the hell, man?!”

## “You know, of all the asses on this boat, _your highness_ , the one you should be worrying about is your _own_ ,” Crowley said to Dean, with nothing but contempt - and perhaps a touch of jealousy - in his voice. He received an enthusiastic bird in response.

## Gabriel sighed, then turned back to his scouting.

## “Stop _doing_ that! We can all relax! It’s almost over,” Crowley demanded.

## “You’re sure _nooobody’s_ following us?” Gabriel responded without turning, still studying the waters behind them with concern in his eyes.

## “As I told you, it would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways inconceivable! No one in Guilder knows what we’ve done, and no one in Florin could have gotten here so fast.” Crowley paused, his eyes narrowing. “Out of curiosity, why do you ask?

## Gabriel shrugged. "Oh, I dunno, I just happened to look behind us and something’s _there_?”

## “What?!”

## Crowley scooted away from Dean and closer to Gabriel. He was pulling at his collar in a rare show of nerves, but then cleared his throat, adjusted his tone and posture back to one of nonchalance.

## “Probably some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise at night.”

## “Oh, totally - through the witch’s eel-infested waters,” Benny tacked on sarcastically, pausing his rowing to take a look as well.

## “Yep, like you do,” added Gabriel.

## But the n’er-do-well trio jumped in sync at the sound of a splash, turning around just in time to see Dean emerge from his dive, paddling furiously away from them.

## Crowley shoved Gabriel’s shoulder. “Go in! Go after him!”

## Gabriel gave him a _look_. “I don’t _swim!_ I snap fingers, badda-bing, badda-boom, I’m there.”

## They both looked to Benny.

## “What?” he asked.

## “ _Go!_ ” they answered.

## “I only dawg-paddle,” he replied, moving his arms in said stroke’s motions for emphasis.

## The demon and the angel raised their eyebrows in near-unison.

## “You were a _sailor_ ,” Gabriel said slowly.

## Benny let out a half-chuckle. “Yeah, the boys always gave me hell for that. Funny, huh?”

## “Aarrrgggh!” Crowley yelled, and lunged at Benny, rocking the boat briefly.

## “For _cryin_ ’ out…. just….. _here_ , come on, start getting to the left,” Gabriel said, pushing Crowley aside, taking one of the oars from Benny.

## And then they all froze - including Dean, who stopped moving forward and started treading water - as a horrid screeching sound filled the air.

## Crowley began to laugh, saying,“You know what that sound is, you wet little squirrel? Those are the shrieking eels! If you don’t believe me, just wait - they always grow louder when they’re about to feed on flesh!”

## Dean’s eyes grew wide and he was startled as he felt something large brush past him, causing more than a few extra ripples in the water.

## “If you swim back now I promise we’ll figure something out, Dean - and I doubt you’ll get such a deal from your new scaly friends.”

## But Dean didn’t have time to reply because one of those aforementioned scaly friends had circled back around, hovering just below the water about ten feet out, seemingly prepping to head right at his face.

## “H-hey there, buddy?” Dean tried, tacking on a shaky grin, though his charm was wasted.

## Suddenly it began its charge, obtaining such speed Dean knew there was no chance he could swim away in time, and right when it was moments away, unhinging its jaw and letting out one final victory screech—-

.

* * *

.

“Dean does not get eaten by the eels at this time.”

The kid blinked, startled out of his concentration. “What?”

“The eel doesn’t get him - I’m explaining it to you, because you looked nervous,” his grandfather said, glancing down.

The kid followed suit, noticing for the first time that he’d been wadding up his bedding in his hands as he’d listened to the story.

“I… I wasn’t… wasn’t nervous,” he replied, loosening his grip. “Well,  maybe I was a little bit _concerned_ but that’s not the same thing.”

“We can stop now, if you—”

“No, you could read a little bit more, I mean, if _you_ want to,” the kid jumped in immediately.

With a nod of agreement, and an adjustment of glasses, the old man went back to the page.

“ _'You know what that sound is, you wet little squirrel? Those are the shrieking eels! If you—’_ ”

“Past that, Grandpa. You read it already,” the kid interrupted.

“Oh… oh my goodness, I did. I’m sorry. Beg your pardon. Alright, alright, lets see… uh… he was in the water, the eel was going after him, he was frightened, the eel started to charge him and then…”

.

* * *

**.**

## —-Benny leaned over and knocked out the eel with one punch while Crowley and Gabriel hauled Dean onto the boat.

## Crowley was already beginning to tie a shivering Dean’s hands with rope, Gabriel holding him in a semi-choke hold, when all three turned towards the stern due to a loud, sucking, toilet-plunger-on-a-mission type of sound.

## Benny looked up and over the eel, to which he was currently giving a deep-fanging, mumbling, "What?“

## They continued staring.

## ” _What?!_ “ he demanded, greenish-blue blood sneaking out the corners of his mouth.

## "Let’s give the little fella a burial at sea, huh?” Gabriel suggested gently, and though Benny seemed disappointed, he let his late dinner - or early breakfast, depending on how you looked at it - slip back into the water.

## But now that Benny was back to rowing and Dean was tied up to Crowley’s satisfaction, Gabriel released him and stood, resuming his survey of what was now clearly another boat, similar in size to theirs, and not terribly far behind.

## “I think he’s getting closer,” Gabriel muttered.

## “He’s no concern of ours! Sail on!” Crowley snapped. Then he turned narrowed eyes back to Dean. “I suppose you think you’re still brave, don’t you?”

## Dean was gazing absently over Crowley’s shoulder, at the cliffs which were just beginning to glow thanks to the barely-there sunrise, when he quietly responded.

## “Only compared to some.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	3. Swashbuckled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Cliffs of Profanity, the mysterious sailor who’d tailed Dean & his abductors makes their presence known… especially to a certain mustachioed angel…. hoo-boy, do they ever.

 

 

The kid grumbled for a good ten minutes before sulking and slithering his way out of bed when his mother, being _totally rude_ \- his words - interrupted the story with crossed arms, a _look_ , and the insistence that he take a shower and brush his teeth, citing the lack of either for going on two days, and while the old man made no comment, he did give his daughter a quick thumbs-up and a wave across his nose. 

Damp-haired and freshly pajama’d, the kid was a bit tired upon his return, though he perked up due to the snack his mother had brought for them which included, to his grandfather’s delight, big tumblers of sweet tea.

“Your mom’s signature brew - Amy, you’re a dream,” the old man told his daughter, and she planted a kiss on his cheek before leaving the room, grinning as she walked down the hall when she heard her son insist - amidst rapid apple crunches - that they get back to the story.

”I’m going to skip over how they got up the cliffs with Dean,” said the old man, flipping pages and scanning. “The author tends to ramble. Just know they got up there, and this long rope is going from the top all the way down to the coast—-”

“There are ropes that long? And who fixed the rope for them? If this was all a big secret? ‘Cause how Crowley said nobody in Guilder knew?”

His grandfather looked up, thought for a few moments, then advised, “Stop hunting for plot holes, kid. Can’t always know everything. That’s a good life tip. May want to write it down.”

.

* * *

.

## There were a number of things Dean didn’t know.

## He didn’t know why he’d been kidnapped, least of all by a frenemy, and an annoyance who came in handy once in a while, and an actual, dear friend. _Former_ , now, far as he was concerned. 

## He didn’t know what was so important about getting up those damned cliffs, the ones called The Cliffs of Profanity, because word was whenever people had tried to climb them, they’d always fall, and always with a stream of cursing before they plowed into the rocky shoreline or dark waters below. Kept the eels happy, though. 

## He _also_ didn’t know where the hell he was going to go once he got away from the three stooges, because he _did_ plan on getting away from them, followed by getting as far from Florin, from Rowena, from _everything_ as he could.

## And then the _last_ thing that Dean didn’t know, something he didn’t _know_ that he didn’t know, was that he had been watched by more than just Rowena’s minions and the twitchy trio.

## Only the day prior, in the farthest corner of the town square, at the highest point, in the bell tower that provided a bird’s-eye view of the courtyard in front of Rowena’s mansion, a cloaked, masked figure stood statue-still, waiting, watching, studying the man who’d been made the Crown Prince of Florin. After a snicker or two over the get-up - most particularly the tights - and a careful surveil of the sour face, it was confirmed:

## Dean Winchester was alive, and had, per usual, managed to get himself into a hell of a hot mess.

## The bum hanging out at the bottom of the tower did some watching of his own, noting that the person donned in black from head-to-toe was a woman. She’d scaled the uneven stonework quickly, and was equally speedy in her descent, hopping down the last few feet without the first hesitation. He gave her a few claps of appreciation as she straightened, adjusted her cloak’s hood further down over her face, but the shadow it cast couldn’t hide the smile she shot his way. And after a deep bow in acknowledgement of the applause, the mysterious woman flipped a coin to him, and he shot _her_ a crooked, gap-toothed grin before moving his legs so she could pass.

## Yet this time, she did not smile, and the slam of her boot heels into the cobbled alley bounced off the walls of the surrounding buildings, and her eyes, well….

## ….they were the darkest and most determined he’d seen in a very long while.

## But back to the cliffs.

## The demon, the vampire, the angel, and their grumbling captive had reached the top without - _much_ \- incident. Dean had been plopped unceremoniously onto the first patch of even… ish… dirt they’d spotted, then his kidnappers had immediately gone back to the edge, all watching in amazement as the sailor who’d tailed them disembarked, tied off the small vessel to a scraggly tree on the shore, and promptly started climbing the rope. _Fast._ As they got closer, and closer, and _closer_ , Gabriel’s mouth fell open - but only briefly.

## “Is that a _rapier?_ ” Gabriel asked, astonished, turning to look at the others. “Have either of you got a sword, because _I_ sure as hell went and left mine back in the pocket of my _other_ pair of homemade britches, in my other life, pre-Rowpocalypse, oh no WAIT, no it’s _not_ , because I haven’t ever NEEDED one!”

## “I thought you were a _soldier_ ,” Benny said, in a snotty tone not unlike the one used on him when being asked how it was a sailor couldn’t swim.

## “We weren’t _fencing_ ,” Gabriel replied, testy, though he shrugged, adding, “Besides. I blew the horn.”

## “You were the boogie-woogie bugle boy?!”

## Barely sputtering the sentence out, Benny then fell into gales of laughter, bending at the waist to grab his knees, gasping.

## “So call one up, sword or horn, who cares - you _know_ what a hurry we’re in!” Crowley exclaimed. “He’s seen us with Dean, so he’s going to have to die. If he doesn’t fall, finish him off. And you—” he pointed at Benny, who was wiping tears from his eyes “—pick up Butterball, let’s go.”

## “I _hardly_ have any power _left_ , are you _kidding_ me?!” Gabriel exclaimed.

## Crowley didn’t answer - he’d pulled out a dagger and was sawing at the rope. It whipped away from its boulder anchor so fast that Benny and Gabriel had to jump out of the way. They shared a _look_ , then hesitantly peered over the edge. Crowley’s would-be victim was still there, carefully climbing, gloved fingers seeking out tiny crevices, boots gingerly balancing on jagged stone, navigating the crag like a boss.

## “Whoo. He must have nice guns. This is the part where we say 'inconceivable’, yeah?” Gabriel muttered to Benny.

## “Brother, _that’s_ a broad,” Benny muttered back.

## Gabriel stepped closer to the edge, squinted, said, “Huh? There cleavage I’m missing? You sure?”

## Benny nodded. “I can smell her.“

## Gabriel slowly turned his head, raised his eyebrows.

## "Dudes don’t smell like honeysuckle,” Benny clarified. They looked down again, and he added, “Another thing -  _that’s_ a pirate.”

## “Just 'cause she’s a good sailor—-”

## “That’s a pirate’s _mask_ \- I’ve seen 'em before. On other vampirates, not my crew, but the more… the more…. the ones who take no prisoners. Not even for kicks, the whole playing-with-your-food thing, if you know what I mean."

## "Yeah. I follow,” Gabriel replied, then raised his voice to a pointed volume, so Crowley would know this new hitch in their situation. “So a vampire? You can smell that?"

## "Nah, just know the mask. But I ain't exactly my old self in these parts. Or maybe it's the honeysuckle. It's kinda nice."

## "How very sweet, and nauseating, and let's _goooooo_ ," Crowley bellowed. To Gabriel he said, "We're headed straight for the Guilder border, catch up.... or jump, I couldn't care less." With that, Crowley stomped over to Dean, getting him to his feet, but Benny didn't move right away, instead once more speaking in a hushed voice to Gabriel.

##  “Gabe, be careful. Don’t turn your back on her - people in those masks can’t be trusted.”

## “Todaa _aaay_ , teeth!” Crowley prompted.

## With a roll of his eyes, Benny complied, heaved an uncharacteristically quiet Dean over his shoulder, and Gabriel shortly found himself all alone, the silence working his nerves as he paced back and forth, wishing an idea would come to his mind, thinking of all the cool weapons the other angels got. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought it, not by a long shot, he’d been there, done that, bought the t-shirt - _“I went to heaven, and all I got was this stupid horn”_ \- and that’s when the light bulb sparked.

## “C'mon juice, lemme pound you back, just one last time,” he whispered to himself, and with a snap of his fingers, there was the horn at his feet - a little dented from its journey, but intact. And it trembled. And took on a gooey appearance, making Gabriel wistful, thinking of the last bowl of ice cream he’d enjoyed. And then it lengthened itself, and he thought about the last wad of taffy he’d devoured.  

## And then it glowed in reds and oranges and yellows. And then it flashed bright as a star. And _then_ , after a furious round of vibrations, Gabriel had himself a fine gold sword.

## He occupied himself with pacing around, mimicking any fencing stances he could recall from his formerly regular TV binges - and doing so _poorly_ \- but boredom found him quickly, so back over to the edge of the cliff he went, only to find the masked vampirate was still at least fifteen feet away.

## “Hey, uh.... Slow going?” he called down.

## “Don’t mean to be a bitch, but this is _not_ as easy as it looks, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t distract me.”

## “Sorry!”

## “Yep.”

## A few moments passed.

## “So there’s no way you could speed this up?” Gabriel asked, and he heard her huff.

## “Tell you what - if you’re in such a _hurry_ you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find something _useful_ to do,” she called back.

## “Yeah, yeah! I could do that. I still got some rope up here. But - you’re gonna accept my help, even though I’m only hanging around to kill you?”

## She raised her head, meeting his hopeful expression with a blasé one. “Welp. That _does_ put a damper on our relationship.”

## “But I won’t - I won’t kill you til you get up here!”

## “Color me comforted.”

## Gabriel waited, foot tapping, while she advanced maybe, possibly, conservatively, two feet, and he tried again.

## "Listen, could I give you my word as a Trickster? Which I get seems counter-intuitive, but hear me out: my peeps, we’re in it for the show, the fun, and it’s no fun if you’re dead before I get to mess with you. You’ll be… gross.”

## “No good,” she replied through a grunt, shifting to hoist herself up to the next grippable rock. “I’ve known too many tricky men, card-carrying Tricksters or no.”

## "There’s not any other way you’ll trust me?”

## “My mind’s a blank.”

## Gabriel steeled himself, stood up straight, smoothed his mustache, and his voice came out steady and sure.

## “I swear on the souls of all the confectioners still crankin’ out sugar pops and chocolate drops in this godforsaken, dry-bread-and-concrete-oatmeal joint, you _will_ reach the top alive.”

## A beat of silence, a brief stare-down, and an assessment of his sincerity later, she said, “Throw me the rope.”

## After Gabriel helped her climb over the edge, she thanked him, and as she rose from her knees, moved to unsheathe her sword.

## “Whoa, whoa, whoa - wait. Let’s…. let’s just wait until you’re ready.”

## A nod, another thanks, and she sat on a flat piece of rock, removing a boot and shaking out what Gabriel found to be a surprising amount of pebbles. He sat opposite her, on a small boulder, quietly studying her, trying to get a bead on what her story might’ve been, who it was she was hunting for, if it _was_ Dean, or possibly even one of them.

## The next boot came off, _more_ pebble dispersion, and it was _too_ quiet again, and they’d developed a rapport, _he_ thought, and she’d got around - being a rampaging vampirate, that is -  she was  _traveled_ , as it were. So it was, he found himself pondering if there was a chance that during her travels, she’d had occasion to stumble upon someone _he’d_ been hunting for. Someone he was desperate to find.

.

* * *

.

The old man’s brow creased slightly, and he licked a thumb, turned a few pages, saying, “We’re going to need to skip this next part, too, jump ahead to where she meets Benny.”

“No!” the kid exclaimed. “Why?”

“It’s inappropriate for you to hear. And you wouldn’t like it anyway, it has to do with…. with, ah….”

“What, is it shmoopy stuff?”

“I….. wouldn’t call it romance, no.”

“Sex stuff?”

The old man blinked, then pulled his glasses to the top of his head, so he could level a solid _look_ at his grandson, who had the decency to be sheepish as he continued.

“Don’t tell Mom, but…. I’ve seen porn. I found a bunch of old magazines in the back of the basement.”

The old man’s _look_ didn’t waver.

“And, I’ve had girlfriends!” the kid rushed on. “Sort-of. And one of 'em, I just held hands with her and sat by her at lunch because her dad’s got this sweet gaming set up and she invited me over a bunch last summer. She, uh, dumped me, though. I miss that big screen. I miss it a lot.”

His grandfather did not acknowledge a thing the kid had said, he merely cleared his throat, took a massive gulp of iced tea, returned his glasses to their perch on his nose, then stared blankly at the next page.

“I can _handle_ it, is my point, Grandpa.”

Still not looking at the kid, the old man flipped back where they’d left off, and replied quietly, “We are never speaking of this again.”

“So you won’t tell Mo—-”

“Never. Again.”  
.

* * *

## .

## “I don’t mean to pry, but - you don’t by chance happen to have any red lipstick?”

## The masked woman paused in her boot-shaking task and stared at her companion. “Red’s not your color,” she informed him.

## Gabriel chuckled, glanced down, but when he looked back up, she was surprised. His eyes were slightly glassy. So she pulled a tube of lipstick from her bra, and now the glassy eyes shifted from sorrow to those of - if she wasn’t mistaken - lust.

## “Where the hell else am I supposed to stash it in this getup?” she snapped. “And pump your brakes.” She uncapped the tube, rolled up a bit of the lipstick, and tilted it toward him.

## He noted the deep neutral hue and gave a satisfied nod, saying, “Thanks.” Then he added, “And, my apologies. Old habits. You’ve nothing to worry about from me.”

## She nodded in return, began putting her boots back on, when he - without being asked - launched into his backstory.

## “My sex life was ruined by a red-lipsticked woman.…”

## Once more, a full-stop on the boots, and an eyebrow arched above the edge of the mask as she brought her head back up to, _also_ once more, stare.

## “….because she did things that…. that….”

## “Oof. I’m sorry to hear it.”

## “No, no, _nothing_ like that! I mean to say: she ruined me for all others. I’ve been unable to find pleasure, _give_ pleasure, since that night with her. It’s been _yeeeeeaars_. And I can’t find her, can’t really remember what she looks like. But _damn_ , I know she was smokin’. Legit, I really think there was smoke. It’s all so _fuzzy_.”

## “Ah, point of order here, _why_ exactly are you telling me—”

## “She gave me this, and this,” he went on, pulling his collar down slightly, pointing to scarring on either side of his neck.

## And the woman in black studied his neck for a moment before she responded, trying to determine what the marks _were_ because, from her perspective, they looked like at least a baker’s dozen of nibble marks and hickeys.

## “Did… did you have someone look at those? I mean, they look really, _really_ red.”

## “They were even redder - y'know, the lipstick.”

## “You didn’t stop her after the first, um, bite?”

## “Never saw it coming! She kept a pair of panties over my eyes. It was actually pretty hot.”

## “Then how’d you know about the lipstick?”

## “Let’s just say she left a lot of it behind.”

## “Okay.”

## “I mean, I had a _ton_ of evidence.”

## “Gotcha.”

## “Most of it, you wouldn’t have been able to see, but—”

## “I SAID _I GOT IT_.”

## He shrugged, looked down, started shifting the hilt of his sword from hand-to-hand, and after she’d finished with her boots, she noticed what he was doing, and cringed.

## “Don’t— you’re— stop that.”

## “What?” he asked, looking back up, but still making with the flipping, and her eyes followed the movement.  
_  
_

 

##  _LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT BOUNCE UP COME DOWN RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT BOUNCE UP BOUNCE UP BOUNCE DAMN UP COME DOWN RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT_

 

## Shaking herself out of it, she said, “Your tip - it’s in the dirt, and this ground’s hard as hell, we’re on a giant rock, you’re— _stop that!_ —you’re dulling it.”

## “Oh, heh. Hmmm. Right."

## Upon lifting it, he seemed to not know what to do with it, so he brought his knees closer together and laid it across his lap, started gazing out at the midday sun, rays peeking through in spite of the haze that came along with being high on the cliffs.

## She rolled her eyes, but was thankful the subject had changed, and she scooted over, leaned in, held out her hand. "Can I take a look?” she asked.

## “Sure.”

## She tested the weight, turned it, looked at all the angles, and blinked briefly when the sunlight caught it, but the glow didn’t hurt her eyes - it was warm, almost inviting in a way, and so as she handed it back to him, she spoke sincerely.

## “I’ve never seen its equal.”

## Gabriel’s expression belied a bit of pride. “Gift from my father. Sort of. I helped. He gave me a _horn_ , and I’m not…. not a big blower… and now it’s this, this, ah….”  He wasn’t sure how to classify it - not a broadsword, to be sure, but seemed he’d overshot a rapier. “It’s an original design. Horny sword, I’m thinking I’ll call it. It’ll be a big seller.”

## “Big, huh? Big, horny swords, from the mind of…..?”

## “Guess I didn’t introduce myself - I’m Gabriel. And you are….”

## She stood, didn’t answer, just brushed off her pants and began studying the landscape upon which they would soon - he was positive - be dueling.

## “….. _ready_ , I guess?” he asked, standing as well.

## “Whether I am or not, you’ve been more than kind,” she replied, readying her sword, but not assuming a defensive posture, and she asked, “So what happens when you find your seductress? She gonna get the dull tip of your horny sword?”

## Gabriel snickered. “It’s not a euphemism.”

## “It _should_ be. Or a band name. Or you can start a gang, have a whole troupe of horny swords, seeking vengeance on behalf of the erectally dysfunctioned.”

## 

## Now Gabriel laughed - for a _while_ \- then finally said, "You know, we _really_ shouldn’t become friends.”

## She chuckled, too, even through her next words.“So, to the killing?”

## With a smile, he answered, “Let’s get it on.”

.

* * *

.

“Was it, um, a long, hard fight?” asked the kid, giggling.

“I will walk out that door,” his grandfather replied.

.

* * *

.

## It was a fairly aggressive duel, but as it went on, he had a feeling she was going easy on him, and wanted to test the theory.

## Gabriel took a big swing, but she dodged - then froze briefly as his blade shaved off a chunk of rock face like a hot knife through butter. And he took the opportunity to rush her, pin her against the rocks - now crumbling thanks to the slice, the pieces pinging down the cliff and hitting the water below - and he interrupted their mutual grunts with a slippery smile and a strained statement.

## “You’re stronger than I thought.”

## She fought through her strain, too. “Thanks. I worked hard to be.”

## “I admit it, you’re better at the sword stuff than I am.”

## More crumbles, more splashing.

## “Then what’s up with the smile?”

## “Because I know something you don’t.”

## “Praytell?”

## “I’m an archangel.”

## He pressed in harder, but his moment of arrogance allowed her to sneak a leg up, and with a boot planted against his chest, she pushed out - and though he stumbled back (and further than he’d have imagined she could’ve sent him), he began chuckling.

## “Man oh  _man_ , if I had my powers intact, girlie….” He capped his trailing off with a long, one-note whistle.

## She lowered her chin, now  _her_ turn for the knowing smile, and the one that came to her face unsettled him, as did the slow, calm pace she adopted as she started closing the distance between them.

## “Pity they’re not. Something I oughta tell _you_ , though.”

## “Lay it on me,” he said, tone full of snark, and was rewarded with a cool once-over, tips-to-toes, before she did.

## “I’m no angel at _all_.”

## And something about the way she said it - Gabriel felt a chill run up his spine, he blanched, sweat came to his brow, pooled in his palms, the grip on the hilt growing loose. He _knew_. In that moment, he  _totally_  knew:

## This broad was gonna kill him.

## He had to think fast. His carousing lifestyle may’ve been wrecked, so wooing her was hell-and-gone from being even a _shred_ of a possibility. The arsenal wasn’t quite tapped out, though - and the last thing he had going for him just may’ve been his strongest weapon of all. Gabriel would have to charm her, plain and simple.

.

* * *

.

The old man paused to take a sip of his tea.

“Well? What happened next?” the kid demanded.

His grandfather glanced down at the page. “Turns out, his charm was on fumes. And she was all out of bubblegum.”

“Huh?”

“She lays into him something fierce. Got some sketches here if you wanna—-”

_“YES!”_

The old man flipped the book around, held it out.

“Woooooow,” the kid said slowly, running a finger over the shiny sword in the hand of the woman in black.

“Mmmm-hmmm… but that wasn’t exactly _Gabriel’s_ point of view.”

.

* * *

.

## Gabriel had been all but certain the horn-turned-sword, its metal made by the host’s finest artisans, would’ve shattered her thinner blade on the first strike, and this was where he’d stop - he didn’t intend to kill her, he was _done_ with smiting, and plus, Crowley could screw off. But as they roamed the top of the cliffs, executing their dangerous dance with Rogers-and-Astaire precision, the clink of her sword against his started playing a song he knew all too well.

## Benny was wrong in his assumption; Gabriel was more than just some pretty-faced blowhard. He’d seen his fair share of action, and not only _outside_ heaven, and—  
_  
_

##  _WHACK!_

 

## She’d knocked the sword clean from his grip, and he realized (and not without a groan) that his gut must’ve been right. This was no ordinary sword his opponent wielded, he’d bet his li….. Okay, maybe not _his_  life, but definitely Crowley’s, possibly Benny’s, on it.

## A spin, a roll, a retrieval of his sword, and he hopped up onto the inexplicable staircase, towering above her, wiggling his eyebrows, tossing in a wink for good measure. While she tilted her head up to look at him, perhaps with a touch of amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth, her stance remained pristine and her eyes did not deviate from his. Time to ditch the charm, go for - oh it tasted bad just _thinking_ about it - some honesty.

## “You seem like a cool chick. I really don’t wanna kill you.”

## “You seem like a bit of a dick. And I really don’t wanna die.”

## “That right there, in your paw? That’s an angel sword.”

## “That it is.”

## “How did you—-”

## “You’re not the only set of broken wings I’ve come across in my adventures.”

## A slightly rueful grin crept across Gabriel’s lips, it was visible, despite the admittedly impressive mustache, though it turned into an genuinely appreciative one  - she was sharp, this one, sharp as their celestial swords.

## “So, spill - who was it? Which angel’d you…. what, swipe it from? Maybe _kill_ for it?” he asked.

## “It was a gift.”

## “Fine, from who?”

## “Whom. And I’m not telling you.”

## “I must know.”

## “Get used to disappointment.”

## “Mmmm-kay.”

## It didn’t last long, not long at _all_ , before his sword was once again knocked from his hand, and no amount of flirting or joking cracked his opponent’s exterior and so, doing something he’d vowed he’d never do again, Gabriel voluntarily took to his knees, closing his eyes as she circled him, saying one last thing.

## “Show some grace. Kill me quickly.”

## “Gabriel, I’d walk right up to the gates of heaven and kick a cupid in the teeth before I’d clip a bullshit artist like yourself. But since I can’t have you follow me, either…”

## She pulled a thin metal rod - same metal as her sword, buffed to an equal shine -  from a holster on her thigh that had been hidden by the tails of the sash wrapped around her hips. It was no longer than an average wood nail, but it came to an impossibly fine point. In one fell swoop, she inserted it into his temple, then dropped into a squat, helping him ease down to the ground, his snoring already at a full-tilt.

## Taking off her black head wrap, she dabbed at the scant bit of blood around the entry point, and placed the cloth into his hand, for when he’d start to wake and no doubt jerk the rod clean out, bleed all over the damn place, and it’d be a pity to get that ‘stache all gummed up.

## "Please understand, archangel: you are the funniest creature - heaven, hell, or in between - that I have ever had the pleasure of fighting,” she whispered, and off she went.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


	4. Fine Dining (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid asks a very important question of his grandfather, the Woman in Black meets Benny, and Rowena’s posse arrives in Guilder.

.

The kid was feeling better, but his mother insisted on another round of medicine prior to his lunch - which he’d immediately invited his grandfather to stay for - and so there they were, the kid with a mug of soup and the old man with the same, plus a grilled ham-and-cheese that the kid kept eyeing.

As his mother hung around to straighten up his room - and, truthfully, to make sure he ate, not due to his sickness, but because he was barely letting her father get a few paragraphs out at a time - the kid sipped on his soup, waited til his grandfather finished polishing off half the sandwich before he got back on task.

“So Grandpa - where’s Sam?”

His mother shut the door and, after a dual glance from the reader and his listener to make certain it was closed all the way, plus a brief moment of waiting for her footsteps to fade, the last half of the sandwich was handed over.

“Gotta be patient. We’re getting there. It’ll be worth it. First we need to check back in on how the abduction’s going.”  
.

* * *

## “Uh-oh.”

## Crowley stopped mid-stride, turned at Benny’s utterance, only to see he’d set Dean down and both were looking back the way they’d come, up a narrow path that ran along the mountainside, and while Benny’s expression gave no clue as to what he meant, Dean’s was the definition of smug.

## At Crowley’s silent, arms-out-to-the-side gesture and raised eyebrows, the vampire clarified.

## “That pirate’s makin’ good time again,” he said, pointing, and Crowley’s eyes followed, then widened as he noted their friendly neighborhood sailing stalker coming up the path at a half-jog, hopping over any stray rock - more than a handful of which were bowling ball-sized - that were in her way.

## “Get his feet untied,” Crowley ordered Benny with a point in Dean’s direction, adding on, “Deal with him, then catch up quickly, I’m still going to need you to act as my bodyguard when we reach Guilder - thanks to Mother’s incessant propaganda, no doubt I’ll get recognized.”

## “Well, what….. whaddya want me to _do_ with him?” Benny asked, having very purposefully kept the knowledge of their adversary’s womanly status to himself, purely to piss Crowley off once she - Benny could only hope - handed his ass to him. Benny’s exasperation with his demonic employer was building up double-time without Gabriel there to distract him, the cherry on top being his worry that she may’ve done more than just subdued his angel friend.

## “Throw him over the side of this wretched rock, then get a move on!” Crowley exclaimed.

## “Well you got more than that worthless dagger on you, _anything_ I can use against that sword a’ his? _Any_ suggestions?”

## "Do it _your_ way!”

## "Oh, great, good, sure - _my_ way - and what the hell is _that?!_ ”

## Crowley was seething, and spat his answer. “Does being a vampire make you dull, or were you that way to begin with, Mardi Grunt? Pick up one of these rocks and crush his skull in!  Better yet, hide somewhere, get the jump on him, and you’re famished, right? So suck him off!”

## Benny and Dean glanced at each other, and snickers, and chuckles, and wheezes, possibly even a snort or two, or four, or six, began to fill the air.

## But after Dean’s legs were free, he’d barely gotten in a good stretch before Crowley had whipped the excess rope around his waist, securing his wrists to them - Benny wrapping Dean in a bear hug and muttering apologies the entire time whilst Dean muttered curses right back - all so Crowley could lead him quickly, jerking him along like a disobedient hound, leaving Benny all alone.

## Unconventional company aside, Benny was fed up with being alone. He’d felt alone during his sailing days, despite being surrounded by his vampirate comrades. He’d felt alone when tenderness left his heart altogether, after his true love was taken from him. And Purgatory, well, that had been the loneliest of all, the only respite being the brief time he’d spent with Dean, his brother in arms, and in _more_ than just fights with the near-rabid inhabitants - as noted, Benny was a hugger.

## And Benny was a fair fighter, at least, _he_ thought. So it didn’t sit well with him, the whole sneak-attack thing. He was motivated to do _something_ about her, though, especially if she’d killed Gabriel, _most_ especially if that was her end-game for Dean, and when he ultimately took out Crowley, well. There was _no_ thought given to a fair fight in that respect, because he was _not_ going to let Crowley kill Dean, greater good of the world be damned. Still, he wasn’t in _direct_ danger from her, and the whole thing just didn’t seem very gentlemanly, very sportsman-like.

## So it was, Benny hid himself behind one of the mammoth rocks sprinkled about and sucked on the portion of screaming eel he’d manage to salvage, stuffing it down his pants before they’d disembarked. Wasn’t half-bad. Coulda used a touch of creole. 

## Now, the woman in black was no fragile flower despite the petal-soft steps of her graceful fencing and the delicate cloud of honeysuckle that tended to float around her, but right in this moment, she was slightly concerned. Never nervous. _Concerned_.

## It had taken most of the day for all parties to get up the cliffs, and it was presently late afternoon, the sky having taken on an orange hue by the time she’d dispatched Gabriel. And the sun had edged down further, approaching the horizon, by the time she’d trudged to the end of the seemingly never-ending cliffs and heading out of the mountains proper, following heavy footsteps like a map. No doubt they were from the big guy whose ass she’d had a ringside seat for during the climb, the extra nice depth of the prints owing to the addition of Dean’s weight, but then as she came to the end of the path, they’d faded, and there came the concern:

## If Dean had been allowed to travel under his own power, the smaller man now responsible for keeping him close by, then what, exactly, was the large fellow up to?

## The packed dirt had given way to gravel-covered barely-there sprouts of pale grass, and after another five minutes or so, it gave way to a healthier green, one that the setting sun caught, and she paused, taking it in, the golden olive hue momentarily making her sentimental and still.

## Which was fortuitous - another step, and she’d have had eel on her face.

## As was par for the course - at least, in her life of late - her eyebrows involuntarily raised above the edge of the mask as she observed the slimy goo now spread across the gradually diminishing rock wall to her side, one of several well-weathered, long, spindled fingers trying to escape from the cliffs and head for wide open spaces. It was a shock of a contrast, the bright pink detritus, that almost metallic blue-green blood with the glittery black scales sprinkled on top, against the so-pale-it-was-almost-white gray shale. Would’ve been pretty if it didn’t smell like the ass-end of a hellhound.

## She’d already begun to turn when the voice called out, already unsheathed her sword as she’d been well-trained to do - _always assume the worst and always hope for the best_ , her captain-turned-mentor would say, and every day, sometimes twice if need be - already poised to fight.

##  There stood Benny, who, she would have to _assume_ , was actively trying not to vomit, and who, she would have to _hope_ , had seen better days - he’d look healthy as a sail-worthy seahorse, if it weren’t for the whole blotch-spattered-corpse thing happening with his complexion and the blue-green stained mouth and chin, bits of tell-tale glittery black stuck to his lips and beard.

## “That was on purpose - I didn’t have to miss,” he informed her in that leisurely Louisiana drawl of his, another chunk of dripping eel in the hand of a raised arm, the other hand occupied with an equally drippy tail.

## “I believe you,” she replied.

## And, Benny believed she did.

## He then proceeded to let out such an octave-defying belch that it should’ve had a holiday assigned in its honor, statues at town centers, possibly parades, children riding on shoulders to catch a glimpse of flowered floats being pulled by horses down unpaved roads.

## “I didn’t have to show myself,” he added, post-aria. “Coulda just jumped you.”

## “So what happens now? I put down my sword, you put down your eel, and you give me a fair shot at twisting your head off with my bare…. well, gloved… hands before I’m dessert?”

## “I"ll tell you what I’ve told others: I may drink blood, but I don’t drink people.”

## “I noticed,” she replied, pointedly moving her eyes to the eel and back.

## “But—” small burp “—‘scuse me. But I can’t let you keep on following us, cher. So I’m giving you a chance now to go on, get back in that boat of yours, forget you ever saw us with the prince.”

## “The odds seem slightly in your favor if we go about this hand-to-hand,” she commented, though she did set her sword on the grass as the lie passed her lips. Well, a white lie, she supposed, standard fighting go-to, throwing your opponent off-guard, let them think they have the upper hand, or pointier teeth, as it were. Thing was, she suspected _she_ was aware of something which he was _not_ , and was thankful for the mask that likely hid any nervousness - er, _concern_ \- on her end.

## “Gotta ask you - why do your folks wear those masks, really? All y'all manage to get stabbed in the ol’ potato-peelers when learning your swordplay or something?”

## The mention of said facial accoutrement made her thankfulness dial down a point, but she answered casually as she could. “Oh, I think it’ll be a trend, they’re very comfortable.”

## A grin, a drop of the eel carcass, a brush-off of his hands that mostly rid them of the goo, and the would-be combatants slowly began circling the small clearing, not coming any closer to one another, not yet, each just assessing the situation, and Benny, she soon learned, was a prodigious small-talker, prompting her to wonder if this was how he treated _all_ his late-afternoon snacks.

## “Good to know. And it looks like a nice one.”  The grin remained, as did the sallow complexion, and as he meandered the perimeter of their makeshift ring, he wiped moisture from his brow, scratched what appeared to be an impressive gathering of welts on his forearm.

## “I was about to say the same about your hat,” she replied.

## The comment elicited a small grimace. “Not my usual. Best I could find in the markets.”

## “Ah,” she responded with a nod. A beat of silence. “It’s the feather, isn’t it?”

## “Damn that Rowena!” he exclaimed, pausing mid-step, a touch of a growl running underneath his words. And he flushed at the thought of the wardrobe-ruining witch, which exacerbated the itching and the sweating  and the scratching, now moved to his scalp, the feathered hat going askew, then came some tugging at the collar of his shirt, a claw or two at his neck, long scratches left in his fingers’ wake.

## And then, Benny lunged.

## She stayed planted in her spot until just before he’d be within reach, then dove to the side, executed a forward roll over a squatty piece of rock, clearing it easily and popping right back up to her feet, turning in time to see him stumble forward. He took a moment to grasp his knees, and shook his head back-and-forth a few times, and she had a feeling it was an attempt to clear what must have been the blurry vision that no doubt had started to come on. He looked over his shoulder at her, back to being affable, winked as he spoke.

## “You’re quick, cher.”

## “Good thing, too.”

## Benny stood, faced her, then frowned slightly, pressed a hand over his belly, which she could hear rumbling, but he went back to circling almost immediately, and she followed suit.

## “Apologies for calling you cher, don’t mean to be forward.”

## This made her smile, a _genuine_ smile, one that hadn’t crossed her face for longer than she’d ever admit, and she said, “For someone wanting to do away with me, you’re quite a gentleman. It’s actually a pleasant change of pace.”

## “People call you names? That’s not right.”

## “The mask tends to bring it out, I suspect.”

## “Only worn it since you’ve been in the business, though—” three hiccups in a row that practically wracked his body “—don’t square for why they’d do you like that before,” he pointed out.

## Her expression, best he could tell what with his occasionally crossing eyes, was solemn, and her voice, he _definitely_ could tell, was nothing but sad when she responded.

## “Different sort of mask.”

## Benny nodded, saying, “I understand.”

## And, she believed he did.

## But the pleasantries, pleasant as the vampire was, she’d decided, had to come to an end, and as she circled, leading him unawares to exactly the position she needed him, she tilted her chin to what was left of the eel and asked a question.

## “You, ah…. you didn’t drain _all_ of that, did you?”

## “Not the whole—” follow-up hiccup “—thing, it got thrown overboard by my…. hey, did you kill Gabe?”

## “How much?” she pressed, ignoring his question.

## “How much—” vigorous scratches to the top of a thigh “— _what?_ ”

## “How. Much. Of. The. Eel. Blood. Did. You. Ingest?”

## Benny wiped his now completely damp brow, knocking the hat off. “I dunno, why’re….. wh…. why you asking? I guess about ha…. half?”

## “That'll do,” she muttered, charging straight at him, and he was swaying, the nausea having officially stuck a toe across the line into vertigo village, though he was aware enough for his bloodshot eyes to widen.

## But she didn’t make contact with him, rather kicked a leg out, making contact with the enormous chunk of rock behind him, using her momentum to pivot and jump onto his back, immediately putting him into a choke hold. He, in turn, gripped her forearms and she, in response, squeezed harder. Following a groan from both his throat and his belly, he acknowledged his predicament.

## “I just knew you were gonna give me trouble.”

## “Why is that—- _HOOOMPH!_ —do you think?” Her question had been interrupted by a full-body slam against the rock behind them, though she wasn’t sure if it was a tactical maneuver on his part, or more of the eel toxin kicking in.

## “I haven’t fought…. fought…. fought just another…. vamp… vampirate in…. awhile, I got used to… to… choppin’ things back in Pur…. Puuurrrrhurrr…. Paaaaa….”

## “Why would that make such a—- _YUUUUNNNNGHHH!_ —difference?”

## Benny stumbled forward after the second slam, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, leaned back, and sure, it was to get better leverage on the neck press, but she was also legitimately afraid he’d pitch himself clean over the edge, take her with him thanks to the iron grip he was still managing on her forearms - that, or he’d slip on some of that salmonella sludge and crush her - so she mentally crossed her fingers as she crossed her ankles, trying her damnedest to act as a counter-weight.

## “See, there’s diff…. you do it diffffffff…..”

##  _Finally_ , she thought. He was tiring out. _Fantastic_. She needed to conserve her strength.

## “’s different….when it’s ju…. just….. on account of….. hell, girl, you got stro….. strong thiii _iiiiiiggghhhhsss…._ ”

## And that was that - he hit his knees, dropped his hands from her arms, but this was for naught as he didn’t use them, instead face-planting right into eel guts. She grimaced as she climbed off him, and took a knee herself, turning him over. A glance at the bubbles of goo from his mouth and nostrils told her he was alive, though a glance at her custom-fitted gloves prompted her to find his hat, using it to wipe some of the sticky mess away. She ripped out the feather on his behalf while she was at it.

## After retrieving her sword and returning it to its scabbard, just as she did with the angel, she took a moment to whisper a farewell to the vampire before rushing off, saying, “I don’t envy the headache you’ll have when you wake up — or the runs, oh, god _help_ you, the _runs_ , _weeks_ of the runs — but sleep well, Benny. And dream of buxom Cajun women.”

## Two down - and the most devious of the trio yet to go.

## It was around this time, back at the cliffs where Gabriel had dueled with the mysterious masked vampirate, Rowena and Abaddon arrived, along with a half-dozen of her guards, as well as a few members of her inner circle, the demons Meg and Ruby. All were on horseback, as they couldn’t risk popping to just anywhere in the neighboring kingdom. Rowena had taken great care to never let on how powerful she and hers actually _were_ , though Guilder’s royal household had more than a clue, and that was _exactly_ how she wanted it.  

* * *

.

“OH! Oh it’s _Sam_ isn’t it, Grandpa, _that’s_ where he is, because earlier when—”

“Yes, you’re very smart, shut up.”

.

* * *

## Rowena sighed, examining a fingernail, the ninth to be exact, one away from having inspected the full set. The horses were fidgety and the guards were exchanging glances, and Ruby and Meg were whispering, the occasional snicker floating into the air. Abaddon was about to shush them when Rowena finally spoke - and pointedly, not even looking at the two when she did so.

## “I’d think none of us would find anything about this situation funny, and you two above anyone else, dearies, as the _last_ time you started your giggling I relieved you of your former hot little packages, now didn’t I? Would you like to go scrounging about the zoo to find suitable replacements, hmmm? Perhaps it’s time you paid back Abaddon, as I’ve not heard _any_ tale about you replacing the two maidens you _now_ inhabit…..”

## Abaddon noted the guards’ glances had shifted from confusion to expressions of concern - they themselves were human, and demons possessing their peers was _not_ something Rowena should’ve been mentioning anywhere outside of her home, more specifically the well-protected meeting chamber (that is to say, _magically_ protected, hexed to the hilt, sigils and warding symbols hidden in the drapery patterns, and traps for days under the rugs) that was just off of her chambers back at the mansion.

## Abaddon cleared her throat, leaned toward her queen - _Ugh_ , she thought, as was her reaction whenever it crossed her mind - whispering, “Your majesty, the guards….”

## Rowena gave her a slight nod of acknowledgement, then promptly began sniffling, blinking rapidly to call up some crocodile tears, threw in a whimper or two for good measure.

## “Everyone, the queen is understandably upset,” Abaddon said to the group, putting on the most sympathetic face she could muster - minus a quick glare at Meg and Ruby’s in-sync eye rolls. “If you could just be patient a few more moments while she, ah…. _concentrates_ on what these tracks could mean and in which direction we should go next.”

## “Looks like somebody had a fight,” one guard said.

## “Clearly,” Abaddon acknowledged, albeit through grit teeth. “But the question is, _what_ exactly happened?”

## “ _Sword_ fight,” another guard spoke up. “You can tell by the boot pattern. 'Else they were dancin’ a mighty fine paso doble.”

## “And somebody had to have dulled the hell outta the tip of their sword, you see all the scratch marks over there?” yet another guard said, nodding his head to where Gabriel had done just that very thing.

## “ _Yesssss_ ,” Abaddon hissed, eyes flashing, grip tightening on the reins in her hands. “But now her majesty must decide on which way to lead us.”

## The first guard pointed to the path leading up the mountain range. “Ain’t but one way to go, ma'am.”

## “Ohhh _hhhhh!_ ” Rowena cried. “All you can think to do is chatter, and I am trying to _mourn_ the loss…. er, the _possible_  loss… of my beloved, who _knows_ what cretins have him, what they’ve _done_ to my darling Buttercup! You mock my paaa _aaain!_ ”

## A follow-up glare from Abaddon resulted in an immediate chorus of apologies from the guards, and a pair of flat “ _Yeah, sorry_ ”-s from Ruby and Meg.

## Rowena patted her tears away, sitting up straight in her saddle, her voice absent of any faux grief as she spoke brightly. “Well, then! It’s coming on nighttime, and we should get going, shouldn’t we?” A turn of the head, and with a smile to the three guards who had spoken out, she continued, “And I’d like _you_ three observant fellows to lead the way!”

## “ _Yes, ma'am_ ” and “ _Thank you, ma'am_ ” and “ _Our pleasure, ma'am_ ” came their acknowledgments, and as soon as they’d all fallen in line, proceeding up the path, Rowena took a moment to speak to Abaddon in a low voice.

## “Execute all of them upon our return, would you, dear?”

## Abaddon’s lips slinked over her teeth in a wicked grin, and she replied, “As you wish.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed - Nash.


	5. Fine Dining (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations abound as the Woman in Black faces off with Crowley, both learning more than they’d bargained for; Rowena and Abaddon continue to plot; oh, and our favorite Buttercup gets kidnapped. Again.

.

Drinks freshened, pillows fluffed, and eyeglasses wiped free of smudges, the old man carried on to the next chapter.

.

* * *

 

## Still quite ahead of Rowena’s party, this was what the woman in black observed when she left the gravel behind for good, arriving in a grass-laden clearing surrounded by a modest amount of trees at precisely thirteen-and-one-half-minutes to sunset:

## There was Dean, bound, hands resting in his lap, seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, with Crowley’s silk scarf - no ties to be had now-a-days - wrapped around his eyes as a makeshift blindfold, and the largest, brightly-colored, most ridiculous-looking headphones (the kind best suited for silly blonde wannabe-hunter teenage girls) fitted snugly on his ears, though she heard the grating guitar riffs before she’d even gotten within ten yards.

## And there was Crowley, smirking, perched on an ornately-carved chair that was one of a matching pair, its twin empty and on the opposite side of the not-insignificantly-sized table, which was covered in a cream-colored tablecloth - one she went ahead and assumed was the highest thread count possible - and a gaudy candelabra, to the left of which was a sizable bottle of brown liquor.

## Also present - oddly - a round wooden pedestal upon which was perched a cheese tray, organic, artisanal (more than mere assumption, this she just _knew_ , and rolled her eyes on pure reflex). There was easily five varieties from hole-filled to sharply stinky, complete with three chutneys and two types of bread plus sesame crackers, and a so-perfect-they-looked-fake bunch of grapes. She was admittedly intrigued - the demon was crafty, possibly the _most_ crafty of all she’d encountered, but it was curious, how he’d managed to retain so much power. Or maybe, just _maybe_ , how he’d _obtained_ it.

## But the _most_ important thing she saw was the dagger, the one in the hand of the arm that Crowley had thrown casually across the back of the chair, just a jab away from the oblivious Dean’s neck.

## “My, my, my…. aren’t _you_ a surprise?” Crowley asked as she slowly approached. “But if you’re as smart as you are lovely, you’ll stop right there - unless you’d like him to bleed. Maybe you’re a bit peckish after your workouts?”

## “Let me explain,” she began, taking a few more steps.

## “Nothing _to_ explain - I know _exactly_ what this is. You’re here at the behest of your captain to kidnap what I’ve rightfully stolen, rake in a nice little ransom.”

## “You’re a deal-maker, are you not? I thought an arrangement might be reached.” She took another few steps.

## “Ha! You think _wrong_. And you’re _killing_ him.”

## At that, Crowley extended his arm, the tip of the knife now so close to Dean’s neck that if he bopped his head back and forth with the beat just one more time…..

## She stopped cold, held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, and though Crowley had to know it was merely decorum on her part, the blade returned to a more casual position once she’d remained still for a few moments.

## “If there’s no room for a deal, well… we’re kinda boned,” she pointed out.

## “I’m sure you’re well aware of the limitations on my kind in this place, so there _is_ the chance I can’t compete with you physically—-”

##  _That’s fairly self-aware_ , she thought.

## “—–and besides, you’re no match for my brain.”

##  _Welp_.  "You’re that smart, huh?“

## "Put it this way: you’ve heard of Lilith? The Princes of Hell? Those seven not-so-deadly mongrels?”

## “Sure.”

## “Morons.”

## “Jeez, you’re _much_ more humble than I’d imagined.”

## Crowley snickered. “I’ve not gotten to where I am without _some_ brains, pet.”

## “Then why so apprehensive of me? Like you say - I’m just here on orders. Why not have a little fun, some lively conversation before we try to kill each other? Shame to waste this nice spread.”

## “So have a seat. _Dazzle_ me.”

## The woman in black did so, the demon eyeing her up-and-down the entire way, but she wasn’t intimidated and didn’t waste any time getting to the point.

## “We know why _I_ want him - ransom, probably a touch of leverage - so what’s _your_ story? Why’ve you taken him, just to piss off Mummy?”

## Crowley chuckled, answering, “On the contrary. That’s a bonus, true, but I’ve been instructed to _do_ certain things, and they likely include death. You need him breathing; I don’t.”

## “Well, it’s been great effort and expense on my part to get this far, so if I fail now? Have you thought about how angry I may get? That if _he_ acquires a case of the not-so-much-living, _you_ stand a good chance of catching that bug, too?”

## Her threat coupled with a touch of a smile made him stiffen slightly, and she could tell he was irritated, the arrogance ramping up, and at the same time, possibly a bit distracted - which was precisely how she wanted him. 

## “I said _likely_ \- I’ve honestly not decided yet. As I suspect you _also_ know, death doesn’t exactly _take_ when it comes to Winchesters,” he replied smoothly, despite his mood - and then, in a culinary non sequitur, added, “Would you like some cheese?”

## “No, thank you,” she answered.

## “Suit yourself.” He broke off a chunk with his dagger-free hand, took a small bite, feigning he had not a care in the world, and after he’d swallowed, said, “May as well have a drink before we go our separate ways, though. It’s of excellent quality.”

## “I’ve no doubt.”

## “And have no doubt in this - Dean _will_ be leaving with me. He’s gone off with me before, we make a nice little team.”

## “Some team - I don’t believe a word you say. I think you’ve already made your decision. The way I see it, Dean here’s on deck for pushing up daisies. Do you deny it?”

## Crowley shrugged. “Big pictures require small sacrifices.”

## “You’re not being very strategic.”

## “Why don’t you regale me with your knowledge after we….” he trailed off, nodding to the whiskey, and at _her_ shrug, poured them each a shot, which she leaned over and took from his outstretched hand with no hesitation.

## He extended his shot glass, they clinked, and they drank. She immediately, more out of habit than anything, flipped the glass, brought it down to rest bottoms-up on the tabletop. He _tsk’d_.

## “Yes?” she asked.

## “Come, come,” he instructed, gesturing, and she complied, righting the glass so he could fill it again. “You’re a pirate, I had my heart set on being impressed by your prowess. I would’ve brought rum, but didn’t know your brand.”

## “There’s only _one_ brand anymore, and it’s not my drink. This is preferable, it’s been missed. And needed after today. So I thank you.”

## “My pleasure.”

## Crowley poured more for himself and his guest, again watching her carefully. And she again flipped  the glass, set it down, wiped her damp mouth with the back of her gloved hand. She met his gaze and they sat that way for several moments, him thinking, the only sound an occasional vague melody drifting over from the headphones.

## So _she_ watched _him_ thinking, and _what_ he was thinking had to do with her still-perfect posture, and the pink of her cheeks, and her sharp (though potentially deadly) eyes, because after several shots of the whiskey he’d laced with dead man’s blood - _really_ good and dead, his supplier had assured him - he’d have thought she’d be feeling the effects, been showing signs of its circulation, at least a _little_ bit.

## And as she voluntarily poured herself another shot, pounded it back, the accompanying  flip-and-slam executed so harshly this time that it cracked the rim of the shot glass, followed by resuming the stare without missing a beat, something occurred to him.

## But he chose to keep it to himself for the moment.

## “If I’m to meet my fate soon,” she said, “I’d love to hear the story of how you’re going to get away from this side of the pond once you’re done setting up Guilder for his kidnapping-possibly-murder. After all, who would I tell? Dead people, no tales, and all that.”

## Now _that_ was interesting. To Crowley. Not to her, because she knew of which she spoke.

## “Oh, I think you’ve a better story. Do tell, love. I get the feeling I’m sitting across from someone who knows more about me than she’s letting on,” Crowley said, and to make clear he expected her compliance, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, munching on his piece of cheese, true, but making sure she saw the dagger was still in his opposite hand, propped on the arm rest closest to Dean, pointy tip right in his would-be stepfather’s direction.

## “All right,” she said, mimicking his posture, and kicking her legs up to prop her boots up the table to…. boot. “I’ll spill if you’ll confirm.”

## “If you’re correct? You’ve got it.”

## She bristled, but regrouped quickly, _spoke_ quickly, as well. “My crew may not play nice with landlubbers, but we _do_ play well with other vampirates, even if they aren’t of our…. standards. And they make nice with the rum-runners. And the rum-runners have loose lips. So here’s what I know, Crowley—-”

## His eyebrows raised at the use of his name, and she cut herself off with a grin.

## “ _Yes_ , I knew who you and Benny and Gabriel were before I even set sail. Enemy of my enemy, blah blah. Here’s the scoop:

## Rowena overturned the former rulers of Florin, and she has her eye on that Hellmouth off the west coast, thinks she’ll pop that cork and have hell proper at her disposal, use whatever’s left in it to conquer whatever _else_ there is to be conquered in our new little paradise, and she’s got Lucifer and Abaddon as her right hand… left, too, I suppose… to help her do it.

## She’ll award you some lordship, make the rest of them Dukes and Duchesses, Lords and Ladies, _reeeeaaally_ lean in to this whole cosplay nightmare she’s got going on, thinking her coven’s gonna keep them in line - keep _you_ in line. Thing is, she doesn’t plan on sharing, she’s plotting to eventually take it all for herself. But you’re three steps ahead of her, of _all_ of them, aren’t you?”

## “Well now you’re just trying to flatter me,” Crowley stated, pleased as punch, still nibbling away like the rat he could be. _Was_. She wondered if that was when he’d acquired the taste, and she made mental note to ask one day, should she have the chance, and under better circumstances, of course.

## “But this isn’t _your_ plan - _she’s_ the one who’s sent you on some mission to kill her husband-to-be, the frame job - it’s the only explanation for why you’ve brought him to Guilder, and for all the sucking up she’s done to them, to their people, the reason she’s made sure everybody knows what a—-” another faint bristle “— _sweetheart_ she is, spreading the word that she wants a friendly relationship with the neighbor rulers, making amends with her estranged son.

## Not to mention her bringing all the other big names in the world of the big bads into her inner circle, buying goodwill with the supernaturals of the population, and the _bonus_ cred for one-upping a Winchester or two. And since she’ll be in mourning over the passing of her Butterfly—”

## “Buttercup,” Crowley corrected with a snicker.

## “Yeah, sure.  Then with all the rending of garments and pearl-clutching, maybe all the regular folks forget that the deadline for her to be married  so she can assume the throne is coming, maybe it passes right by, ‘cause she can’t wave her magic wand over the laws of the land, they’re infused with power far beyond her own. If she’s to get the crown, she will have to wed eventually.

## Better yet? Maybe she marries Abaddon or Lucifer, maybe she’s promised one of them - or both of them - that they’ll rule together, bluffing all the way, telling them they’ll take out the spurned sidekick as a team, but she’s underestimated you - _you’re_ going to let them take each other out, then you’re free and clear to swoop in, grab it all for yourself.

## So tell me, Crowley - how am I doing?”

* * *

 

.

“That doesn’t sound like her - did she _really_ say all that? That whole exposition dump?” the kid asked, his suspicion from chapter one making a comeback.

“Hmmm?” was the old man’s unconvincingly innocent response.

“Plus, you just read it without that fancy voice and whatever accent it is—–”

“It’s Florinese.”

“Uh-huh.” A pause. “Yeah, she didn’t say all that, did she?”

“Well not…. not exactly.  Remember how I said this author has a case of the rambles? It’s bad, kid.”

“How bad?”

“ _Bad_. I’ve already skipped over some. There was fifteen pages on training Dean to be the crowned prince - you know, bowing and when to shut up and all that.”

“Holy cow.”

“Oh, she talks about cows, too. All the livestock futures. Seventy-two pages’ worth. And shipping manifests, and the iron industry, arbory and architecture, which roads are paved, which are cobbled, which area’s population—-”

“ _Grandpa_.”

“My point _is_ , I am performing a valuable service, here. I’m abridging.”

“Hey! You should re-write it, then!  People do it all the time, they’ll take their favorite stuff and rip it to shreds and put it back together, and sometimes it’s actually pretty good… _kinda_ …. with…. in certain…. _lighting_ …. I guess…. like bathroom lighting….” The kid trailed off as he pondered on quality toilet reads.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” his grandfather said, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s a great story, despite the tangents. And the digressions.”

“And the rambles,” added the kid.

“Writing is hard,” the old man summed up.

The kid nodded.

And back to it they went.

.

* * *

 

## “You’re right, mostly,” Crowley acquiesced. “And now I’d like to know _how_ you know.”

## “My captain networks, has friends—”

## “Informants.”

## “If you like. But I take it you do, too. Otherwise _neither_ of us would know what we know.”

## Crowley chuckled. “Oh, Mother. She can be devious, but she’s no devil. And she should leave the devil’s work up to me. As should you and your captain. But now, kitten, I’m going tell you something _I_ know. About _you_.”

## “I can’t wait.”

## “But you will - it’s time for another drink, and a toast this time.”

## He leaned up, set to pouring, and she asked, “And we’re toasting to…..”

## “Why, to us! And our dizzying intellect!”

## “Uh-huh. You’re stalling.”

## "I SMELL WHISKEY,” Dean interjected abruptly, yelling over his music, and loudly enough that the competitors in the battle of wits were startled.

## “Well?” she asked Crowley.

## “Well, _what?_ ”

## “Give him a shot. If he’s a tipsy puppy, it’ll make for an easier go on my end, when I’m walking him away from here. And from _you_.”

## Crowley laughed, laughed through the last part of her words, laughed through pulling the bottle toward him, laughed as he snapped his fingers, though it faded when it took him four snaps to conjure another shot glass, and was down to snickers by the time he placed it into Dean’s hands, apparently having depleted his power at some point  during the prepping of the spread.

##  _Cheese tray_ , she thought.

## “AWESOME!” Dean announced at the feel of the shot in his hand.

## It was then he proceeded to splash it directly onto his chin and neck. He’d remembered his wrists were bound together, yes, but he’d forgotten that once Crowley plunked him down on the fallen tree trunk, his ankles were bound as well, Crowley then making sure both sets of limbs were tethered to the rest of the rope around Dean’s waist, ensuring that if his abductee were to try to make a run for it, he’d end up on the ground, a very tall, very handsome, and likely very belligerent hog-tied calf.

## The whiskey only hop-skipped across Dean’s outer tunic-meets-waistcoat, a harlequinesque monstrosity so rigid it was practically a straight plane, the bulk of the liquid coming to rest in his lap. Specifically, it went to roost in the general area of his junk, soaking the whole kit-and-caboodle, and likely staining the suede, so that for as long as he’d have to wear them, it would always look as if he had recently missed the ol’ throne.

## After a roll of his eyes, Crowley stared at the masked woman, and she stared right back, the sun inching closer and closer to its retirement, the cheese in his hand dwindling, and her patience waning. He broke the stare to glance at Dean, who was swaying slightly, playing mouse-sized air drums with his bound hands, mouthing lyrics, completely unaware of their stare-down. But Crowley wanted to make _doubly_ sure Dean couldn’t hear what he was about to say next, so he leaned in, motioned for her to do the same, and she did so.

## “You’re no vampirate,” he stated, and was surprised when she didn’t confirm or deny, instead answering his question with one of her own.

## “ _Really?_ ”

## “That—” a thumb in the direction of the whiskey bottle “—has two full vials of dead man’s blood in it.”

## “I’m immune.”

## “Impossible.”

## “There’s much we can train ourselves to withstand.”

## “No. Not this. It’s inconceivable.”

## “For _you_.”

## “Is that an insult?”

## “That’s my way of saying you should stop _acting_ smart and _be_ smart, let me take ol’ soggy britches over there off your hands without a fuss so you can get back to usurping. Take a hit to your pride, you’ve done it before! Say some swarthy band of pirates got the better of you, or that you were struck by the voodoo of whatever creatures are hiding in that swamp - hell, don’t even _go_ back to Florin, tell your fan base here in Guilder that the queen banished you, they’ll believe it.”

## “ _You’re_ the one who isn’t smart! _You’re_ not the only one tracking me! You don’t think that redheaded wretch planned to keep me around long enough to bestow me some stupid title, do you? Why mourn solely over a lost fiance when you can double-down, mourn the betrayal of your only son, say he conspired with Guilder, only for him to meet his end as well?” Crowley’s voice grew strained with each word, his face getting redder by the moment.

## “Ah. You think your insiders have given you up?”

## “I’ll have you know that Mother’s going to dispatch one of her wenches to find me, may have already, to do away with _me_ as soon as _Dean’s_ done-for. Then _I’ll_ be the newest creature in the swamp - her hellish handmaiden won’t be able to kill me, I’m still too strong for that, but they _do_ have the ability exorcise me into some sludge-crawler, and they _will_. You’ve actually helped, they won’t have to waste their powers on Gabriel or Benny before getting to me! Every moment we spend here is _another_ moment they have to get closer, and I am reaching the end of my—–”

## Crowley’s ranting ceased so he could clear his throat, and then cough… and cough…. and _cough_.

## He happened to be correct - the Florin party had, at just that very moment, arrived at the spot where Benny had been defeated. 

## “Someone took out a vampire,” said Ruby.

## “Now, how could you know that?” asked Meg, eyebrow arched.

## “He’s laying over there,” Ruby said with a grin and a point. “See, on the…. ugh, what _is_ that?”

## “Damned fool went and drained a rotten eel, made himself sick,” Abaddon answered, and Rowena gave her a _look_ that spelled out her clear concern over the plan having taken a sharp turn. And Abaddon’s return _look_ conveyed her assessment clearly, as well. 

##  _Crowley’s been busy._

## However, the fact remained that only three people - Rowena, Abaddon, and Lucifer - were aware of the eels’ toxicity, swimmers succumbing to the poison long before they became a meal. Well, mostly. The eels probably got in a few bites before wannabe Florin expats bit the dust. Bit the sea. What-have-you.

## Granted, it wouldn’t have been beyond Crowley’s deviousness to somehow know of this tidbit and suggest Benny satiate his hunger with an eel during their travels, lighten his baggage, but the fact remained that he knew _nothing_ of swordplay, and while it wouldn’t have necessarily been out of the realm of possibility that an archangel would, it still didn’t seem very likely that he’d stand a chance against Gabriel, off-center powers or not.

## Something, to put it lightly, was up. Or down. Sideways, to be sure.

## “There will be great suffering in Guilder if….. oh I can’t _stand_ it any longer!” Rowena bellowed.

## “We’ll _find_ him,” Abaddon responded.

## “No, not _that!_ I can’t stand to be around the _smell_ any longer! You - pick him up,” Rowena instructed a few of the guards, waving a hand in the direction of the snoring vamp. “I’m sending you back to Florin’s shore. Leave him in the Beasts’ Quarter, and if he wakes before then, throw him in the sea so he can get another belly full of eel - or perhaps it will be the other way 'round, hmmm?”

## “And on your way back to the barracks,” Abaddon added, “start circulating the word that Dean has been kidnapped and the queen herself is out looking for him.”

## “Would you like us to mention _where_ you’re looking for him, Your Majesty?” asked one of the guards.

## “As a matter of fact, I _do_ , my dear,” Rowena answered. “Now, hurry and pick him up - Abaddon, send them on their way, would you? And as for you two—” now Rowena gestured for Ruby and Meg to come closer “—time to be off on your assignments. We’ll meet you on the outskirts of the swamp. We don’t need to be spending the night here in Guilder - and, Ruby?”

## “Yes, ma'am?”

## “It’s my expectation that you _will_ be staying the night.”

## “Yes, ma'am.”

## “Meg? Do I need to remind you of my expectations for _you_ tonight?”

## “Oh, no, ma'am. I’m on it.” Meg capped off her assurance with a pat to the demon blade on her belt. Ruby side-eyed her, and Meg gave her a _look_. “Still not yours, doll-face. Maybe you’ll find where you left it tonight. Make sure you check under all the beds, probably just hiding underneath a stray pair of unmentionables.”

## “And _you_ make sure not get on the wrong end of Crowley’s pokes this time,” Ruby shot back.

## Rowena reached out, a hand to Ruby’s cheek, a hand to Meg’s, giving each a gentle stroke followed by a few sharp pats, saying, “Now, now. Enough of that. You ladies are just hell-sent, such _darling_ minions, how _fortunate_ I am! I feel so _blessed_.”

## “So do we,” Meg and Ruby replied in unison, all three opting to ignore the others’ fake saccharine tones and slight shudders.

## And speaking of shudders—–

* * *

 

.

“Grandpa, hold on, I think you skipped something - I mean, _different_ somethings. More than the cows.”

The old man moved his glasses to the tip of his nose, looked to the kid. “How’s that?”

“Well, what’s she _talking_ about? What’s she sending Meg and Ruby to do?”

“Ah, so I did, so I did, let’s see….” After flipping back a few - make that eleven - pages, he answered, “All those present, except for the guards, being part of Rowena’s inner circle, knew the kidnapping was her plan. Ruby was Florin’s emissary to Guilder, and that _is_ a bit of a euphemism. For ‘the queen’s chief seductress’.”

The kid wiggled his eyebrows, and his grandfather waved him off.

“We’ll get to that later, mind out of the gutter, huh? So, she was to head to the castle to report that the queen suspected Dean had been kidnapped by Guilderians. And Meg’s job was to track down Crowley to do exactly what he’d told the woman in black. Given how he’d killed Meg back in the real world—”

“Whoa.”

“—-she was only too happy to take on the task.”

“But Grandpa, the woman in black’s gonna kill Crowley, and then rescue Dean, and then go find Sam so they can fix everything, right?”

“Let’s find out.”

.

* * *

 

## And speaking of shudders, Crowley was presently overcome by them, his skin’s redness rivaling the setting sun.

## “I’m giving you a chance here, Crowley,” she warned, and to ensure he knew she wasn’t playing, she stood, removed a demon blade from her thigh holster, spun it in her hand, then laid it on the table, capping off the demonstration with an inquiry. “By the way - how’re you feeling?”

## “How am I _feeeeeling?_ ” he hissed back.  And seemingly as if he wanted to prove nothing was wrong, he sloshed whiskey into his glass, broke off another piece of cheese, brought it to his mouth with a trembling hand, sputtering a bit when he shouted, “I’M JUST _GREAT_. And your little butter-spreader doesn’t scare me, girl.”

## She then pulled a tiny bag, roughly a third smaller than your average hex bag, from her bra - which raised his eyebrows and earned him a glare in return - tossing it onto the table next to the demon blade.

## “Spent some time in what used to be South America, snitched a few souvenirs. Good to make yourself valuable to vampirates, you know. My _new_ mentor appreciated all the factoids I’d learned from my _old_ mentor, made it more likely they’d turn me and less likely they’d munch on me, needing blood for the brain and all.”

## With a withering look, following a rough swallow of the whiskey and a follow-up nibble of cheese, he asked, “ _So!?_ ”

## “I blew a little powdered Palo Santo on your cheese when you were passing that shot to Dean. Camembert’s too salty and fatty anyway, demon your age who’s already been mostly dead really should be watching the ol’ cholesterol. The paralysis should start kicking in _aaaaany_ second now.”

## The cheese was spat onto the grass immediately. “That is inco….. incon…. innaconna…. _DIRTY!_ ”

## “I’m trying to give you a fair chance: you leave or you die.” She ran a few fingers over the hilt of her sword. “Maybe that _butter knife_ just stings, but this? This took ten angel blades and a whole year to make. I think you’ll agree it was worth it.”

## “ _Must_ be, seeing as how you’ve bested not only a bulkier version of your brethren, but that cheatsy archangel as well, neither of whom are strangers to dodging a blade.” A pause, several coughs. “Well, and getting _stabbed_ by them, _beheaded_ by them, too, so… Perhaps you’re _not_ as good with fighting as you are pretty.”

## “Perhaps. Though, if these two won’t do the trick? I betcha third time’ll be the charm.”

## With that, she moved her hands to her back, and when she brought them back around, she set something on the table that made his eyes widen, caused him to feel as if he were looking down the opposite end of a telescope. It didn’t happen often, people catching him off-guard, at least, _he_ thought, but it couldn’t be ignored; he had been here before. He was most _definitely_ on the wrong end of the current situation.

## “How could you _possibly_ acquire—–”

## “So you get to go and get a chance at not getting dead,” she went on, ignoring him, “and I get Dean. And I _am_ getting the short stick here, you know.”

## “Not bloody likely. Because I no longer think this is about some pirate ransom plot. I think you’re going to use him to get something out of Sam - am I right?”

## “I want _nothing_ from the Winchesters.”

## “Heh,” Crowley scoffed. “Famous last wo….. wor….. wor…..”

## But Crowley couldn’t get words out, as the trembles were beginning to morph into near-convulsions, the coughing more ragged, and he stood from his chair - more like _spasmed_ from his chair - so quickly his knee hit the table, causing the whiskey bottle to tip and spill the entirety of its contents, which made her sigh, and which also—

## “I SMELL MORE WHISKEY.”

## Crowley gave Dean a harsh shove as response to the outburst, sending him flying backwards, ending up on his back behind the log, legs in the air like a tipped-over turtle, and it sent the headphones flying as well, the sound of AC/DC  growing fainter as they bounced away, up over a small crest, rolling out of sight.

## And then Crowley promptly joined the knocked-down party, planting his ass on the ground, now sucking wind, his shortness of breath kicking up a notch. But he managed to edge his way backward to lean against a boulder, still managed a sneer, still managed grit teeth and narrowed eyes, more and more with each of her movements, her casual returning of her arsenal to their appropriate hiding places, the leisurely walk around the log where she began to loosen the binds on what was once his prize.

## “Hey, uh, kinda handsy, there,” Dean said with a touch of a chuckle, once he’d been helped upright and the scarf had been pulled away from his eyes to hang around his neck, giving him a good look at who he believed to be his rescuer, a round of rapid-fire expressions rolling across his face when she knelt directly in front of him.

## She didn’t respond, just cut at a few of the rope’s knots to hurry the process, stuck the blade into the log, then brought the excess used on his legs with her as she stood, securing it around her waist so they’d be tethered.

## “You don’t need to do that, I don’t mind hanging with you. Been awhile since my last date, though. Guess I’m a little rusty on what passes for fun,” Dean tried again, toothpaste-commercial smile and twinkling eyes in check, his flirt dial tuned to the maximum setting.

## She wound the rope again, tied the knot in front with a fierce yank.

## He held his wrists in her line of sight, asking, “But can we lose these, too, sweetheart?”

## At his request, she quickly retrieved the blade, bringing it to his waistline so abruptly he gasped, but she didn’t filet his meat and two veg as he’d feared, instead slicing at his outer tunic.

## As the grunts and shuffles emanating from Crowley grew softer and the twilight came upon them, she got busy ripping the lining from the halved tunic, quickly tossing cheese, bread, and grapes onto the shimmery fabric, knotting it into a makeshift sack and putting it into Dean’s still-tied hands, at which he raised his eyebrows.

## “No more servants, your highness. You’re going to be making yourself useful, starting right now.”

## He opened his mouth to retort, but she’d already begun walking, snatched up the small candelabra, jerking him along for the ride, though he stopped briefly to stare down at Crowley, and she glared at him due to the reciprocal jerk on her waist.

## “Let me enjoy this for a second, huh?” he asked.

## “Ass _ssss!_ ” Crowley managed.

## “Walk!” she commanded, pointing ahead of her, and Dean rolled his eyes but did start moving.

## “Wait,” Crowley said, and something in his tone caused her to do so, giving the rope a sharp tug before Dean got too far.

## “Stay,” she ordered.

## “You gonna talk to me like I’m your _dog_ for—-”

## She whipped out her sword and whipped herself around to face him. _“HUSH!”_

## He did.

## She dropped into a squat next to Crowley, and though what he had to tell her came out at the speed of sludge, she kept quiet,  because what he had to say was very interesting, indeed.

## “Whatever it is you’re up to, do it fast - I don’t know what Mother’s promised Abaddon. But I know what she’s promised Lucifer. She’s promised him Sam.”

## After one more silent moment, she said, “You know, Crowley - I actually happen to like you.”

## But by then, he couldn’t speak, the Palo Santo having taken full effect, its paralytic properties ensuring she could do anything she wanted, from wrecking his meat suit to exorcising him, what he’d have _expected_ any other enemy of his to do, yet she didn’t, and he saw the concern, the _sincerity_ in her eyes as she went on.

## “And I’m in your debt. For what you did for them. For the brothers, back at the rift. I don’t know where you’ll end up when this place ceases to exist. But wherever it is, always know I’m grateful.”

## His eyes traced the entirety of her face, and when he met her gaze again, there was no doubt as to what he’d have responded had he been able.

##  _You love them._

## The woman in black’s lips eased into a knowing, solemn smile, and she ruffled his hair before she stood, then as she began to walk to Dean, said over her shoulder:

## “Takes one to know one.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed -Nash.


	6. Shoes, Ships, Sealing Wax, Cabbages & Kings (Pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take a quick hop-skip back in time, so The Kid can learn how it was that one Sam Winchester finally had to face his destiny and become a (very reluctant) king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This one’s chunky with info, I know, but Sam needs to know it out of the gate, and we needed to get it out of the way so we can move on without me having to constantly interrupt the action and hilarity that’s coming to inject the background of what happened before our heroes'-and-heroine’s arrival. The next part’s close to done, so you may get it quicker than usual, we shall see!

 

.

After watching the old man polish off the last of his tea, the kid was surprised - make that _annoyed_ \- to see him close the book, stand, and start patting his pockets, his classic tell that indicated he was gearing up to leave.

“You’re not done yet!” the kid exclaimed.

The old man glanced to the empty glass. “Yes, I am.”

“The story! We gotta finish it!”

“We still got a ways to go - and I have to head out at  _some_ point.”

After a moment of thinking while the old man donned his coat, the kid got an idea, saying, “Grandpa, stay for dinner - I bet Mom would make Grandma’s waffles for us!”

His grandfather’s eyebrows raised. “Breakfast for dinner?”

The kid nodded. “Mmmm-hmmm. I can make her do it. I’m sick. I’ll give her the face.”

“The face?”

“It works every time.” As if to prove it, the kid went full puppy dog. “Please? Stay and read some more?”

At the old man’s hesitation, the kid took the opportunity to yell for his mother, who came rushing in with a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder, eyes wide. “ _What?!_ What’s wrong? Pop? What’s happened?”

The old man chuckled, put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “Easy, Amy. He’s feeling a little better—-”

The kid faked a small cough, amped up the face.

“—-but is still, _clearly_ , not well, and he was wondering—-”

“ _We_ were wondering,” corrected the kid.

“Fine, fine. _We_ were wondering if you’d be so kind as to whip up some of your mother’s world-renowned waffles.”

“Well…. I mean, if you don’t need to go—-”

“He doesn’t!” the kid interjected. “He wants to read more.”

After a shared _look_ between the adults, the old man began to take off his coat, his daughter shook her head, grinned, and walked out of the room, and the kid - smug from tips-to-toes - settled back into bed.

And as the old man returned to the chair, he began speaking as he picked up the book.

“You’d asked me about Sam’s whereabouts, and the answer to that is: Sam had simply appeared in Guilder. He’d gone to sleep in a cheap motel on a random Monday night, then Tuesday morning found him waking in a whole new world….”

.

* * *

## Waking up on Tuesdays already made Sam Winchester twitchy, and it doubled-down whenever he’d wake up on a Tuesday with the sense that strangeness was afoot.

## Sam was exhausted, he was hardly sleeping four hours a night, and this had started as soon as he’d left the bunker after the fight with Dean, dwindling minute by minute over the months he’d been on the road, hunting the usual fare as he came across it, sure, though it was not his mission. Sam was focused on finding out how exactly the apprentice had met her fate. He was _so_ focused, in fact, he hadn’t allowed himself time to be angry. He hadn’t allowed himself to grieve. He had snapped back into quite the soulless routine and, in a way, the lack of sleep helped - it made him no-nonsense on the side hunts, dissuaded him when he thought about calling Dean, and it made him want to punch anything or anyone that stood between him and the answers he wanted. _Needed_.

## And on _this_ Tuesday, he was both twitchy _and_ groggy - it was completely dark when he awoke, he couldn’t even make out the stained plaster of the motel ceiling, and the bedside clock must’ve crapped out because no glowing numbers came into his field of vision when he turned his head. A push of a button on his watch told his bloodshot eyes it was almost 5 a.m. When his bare feet hit the floor, it felt cold and hard, instead of feeling like threadbare carpet, so his sluggish brain told him he was in his bedroom, at the bunker.

## He didn’t question it - he’d _had_ dreams about being back home (that is, when dreams would come), and opening the door, he didn’t question how heavy it was to move, the creaking sound it made, didn’t question the feel of a curled-and-swirled handle in his grip. The pitch hallway glowed here-and-there with flickering, yellow-orange orbs, and his weary brain told him:

##  _The emergency lights are on - go flip the breaker._

__

## He padded down the hall, wiped sleep from his eyes, yawned, completely on auto-pilot, turned a corner, scratched his head, walked further, then frowned as he noticed the floor was not flat, even concrete. It felt _un_ even, irregular, more like raw tile, perhaps, but then he paused, leaned against the wall, blinking rapidly, trying to wake himself up, and when his hands grazed the wall he noticed it was not wall - well, it _was_ \- but _covering_ the wall was fabric. A tapestry, to be specific, and his unhelpful brain told him:

##  _This isn’t the bunker._

## “No shit,” Sam mumbled, turning in a circle.

##  _Stone walls. Stone floor. Doors. More tapestries. Paintings. Candelabras. Torches. Stained-glass window at the end of the hallway._

## Sam picked up his pace slightly, scanning as he rounded another corner, went down another hallway, listening for anything that could give him a clue as to what Tuesday had brought into his already upside-down life, but other than the occasional rumble of thunder and rain pinging against the windows he passed, there wasn’t a sound to be heard, nor a soul in sight. There was _nothing_ familiar about _anything,_ yet right then his annoying brain alerted him to something he’d subconsciously seen out of the corner of his eye.

## He came to a full stop, took a moment for a shaky inhale-and-exhale of a breath that did nothing whatsoever to calm him, and then he threw it in reverse for a few paces, to re-visit something curious he’d just passed. He stared at one painting in particular, the subjects of which served to drop his mouth open, close his mouth, make him start gulping as he eased closer, and he studied it, which dropped his mouth open again. He squinted, stepped even _closer_ , had his nose practically up against the canvas.

## And then, after a very manly gasp, Sam Winchester hit the floor.

## A multitude of servants lifting, grunting, and hauling later, he was back in the room where he’d started, though he wouldn’t wake for the rest of the day, and then half a day after that, and he would eventually come to learn that John and Mary Winchester were the rulers of the area of the continent now known as Guilder, and _when_ he learned this, it surprised Sam greatly that his parents had managed such an accomplishment, mostly because they weren’t exactly the political types, but also because they were dead.

* * *

.

The kid had just taken a drink, but promptly sputtered it back into the glass.

“You’re gonna want to get comfortable with that, the whole only-mostly-dead thing,” his grandfather advised.  
.

* * *

## While it was true that John and Mary had both been gone from their sons’ lives for quite some time in the real world, it didn’t shake Sam up to know they were up and about as much as it would the average person - he’d encountered them both post-demise on more than one occasion. He’d accepted the weirdness of his existence; this in-and-of itself, minus the initial shock, was not out of the realm, not by a _long_ shot. It _had_ struck him as odd, however, that they hadn’t come over to embrace him upon their first encounter _here_ , the one that happened after he’d been fussed over by various servants once he’d awakened, getting him outfitted in slacks and shirts and tunics whose cuffs and hems fell too short, assuring him this would be remedied by the next day as he was hustled into a large dining hall.

## A fireplace was roaring, a long table was filled with food, and he recognized his parents’ voices coming from somewhere in the shadows at the opposite end of the room from the doorway, in which he stood, taking a good look around while a servant announced his arrival.

## Aside from the fireplace, the front half of the room was lit by the biggest chandelier he’d ever seen, a wooden circle with a devil’s trap carved in the middle, rimmed with innumerable pillar candles, dropped from the ceiling by thick chains. Candelabras and wall-mounted torches were sprinkled about, and everything was as clearly visible as if the candles were bulbs humming with electricity. Everything but where his parents stood.

## And they only stepped forward from their shadows enough for Sam to make out his mother’s now waist-length blonde waves and his father’s impressively full gray beard, and to note their clothing was similar in style to his own. Sam hadn’t said a word since he’d come to, only given polite nods and tight-lipped smiles to the servants - he simply hadn’t known what to say. But he figured it out.

## “It’s great to see you, son,” John said.

## “We’ve missed you,” Mary said.

## “What. The. _Hell_ ,” Sam said.

## “Why don’t we take a seat, get some food in you - you must be starved,” said John, and after a barely-there hand gesture, three servants came forward from - well, _somewhere_ , it seemed like they were milling about _everywhere_ \- each pulling out a chair for the Winchesters, John’s and Mary’s at the dark end, Sam’s at the lit, and then a few more appeared, setting out dinnerware and utensils, beginning to plop food on Sam’s plates and filling a large goblet with wine before he could make the first move.

## Sam tried again, saying, “Mom, what—-”

## “Sit,” John told him, he and Mary doing so themselves, and all the servants fussing with serving and pouring slowed to a halt when Sam did _not_ , turned their heads in his direction when he responded.

## “ _No!_ Tell me what’s happening!”

## The servants’ eyes eased back in John’s direction, no one moving a muscle.

## John chuckled. “Been a long time since I gave a direct order that wasn’t followed. Everyone, carry on. He’ll sit when he’s ready.”

## Sam’s eyebrows shot up. There was a lot to unpack there, not just the words, but the attitude. He was no stranger to shooting down his near-militant father’s edicts; not getting a verbal - or worse - thrashing for lack of compliance in return was a balance-thrower. _Literally_. He started feeling woozy again.

## So, Sam sat.

## He _was_ hungry, truth be told, and everything smelled wonderful and looked fresh - well, of _course_ it was, he chided himself, not like they could nuke something from the fridge or order Chinese take-out, based on the circumstances as he knew them thus far - though two things stood out: one, his parents were given bowls instead of plates, and two, the menu contained———

* * *

.

The kid’s mother gave the cracked-open door a few raps, stuck her head into the room, asking, “Anybody want bacon with their waffles?”

Her father and her son shot her _looks_ that clearly indicated they found the question unnecessary and the interruption uncalled-for.

She gave a thumbs-up of acknowledgement, hid a grin, made herself scarce.

.

* * *

## ——-many dishes that were cabbage-based. There was chopped fish-and-vegetable mixes wrapped in cabbage leaves. Chunky green-and-purple-hued slaw. Steaming pots of kielbasa and sauerkraut. Something that looked like kimchi. Roasted baby cabbages and carrots. And he watched as tomato-and-cabbage soup was carefully ladled from a tureen into the bowls in front of his parents, the cabbage-and-tomato parts carefully strained out.

## Sam frowned.

## John noticed. “Eat,” he commanded.

## Sam picked up his fork and, apparently satisfied with the indication of acquiescence, John told the servants they were excused, to go get themselves some dinner, take the rest of the night off. And then, in between the occasional spoonful of broth and sip of wine, John began to fill Sam in on where, exactly, he was, this land called Guilder, saying it was a wonderful place with a modest population of impressive people, and while they weren’t as big a country as Florin, their economy was robust, he was pleased to report, thanks in no small part to cabbage.

## Sam paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, not quite raising his head, a puzzled look on his face, but if John noticed _this_ , he wasn’t deterred.

## Guilder was but a few steps away from being an island, just barely land-locked, with what was essentially a sandbar remaining of the isthmus to the south that led to the area formerly known as South America, and the bit of swamp in the northeast that connected them to Florin, otherwise the small sea channel that laid between the Cliffs of Profanity and their northern neighbor would have severed the continent completely.  As such, the fishing wasn’t anything to sneeze at, and the kingdom also made a tidy profit due to arrangements made with the rum-brewing vampirate community - they wouldn’t be exiled to the smatterings of tiny islands near the continent and they would be protected from any enemies, so long as they didn’t fang and pillage and gave a percent of rum sales to the kingdom as taxes. And on top of _those_ , Guilder land lent itself to growing cabbage, of all things, particularly well.

## Cabbage is much better with regard to sustenance and nutrition over something like iceberg lettuce any day, and is ideal for farming when time and cost are of issue. Early cabbages tend to do best when planted and grown in a sandy loam, later cabbages tending to prefer heavy soil that retains moisture well, and Guilder had plenty of both. It’s a cool season crop, so for the most part the fishing happened in the south, the farming in the north, as in the summer months the heat, not to mention the insects, would

* * *

.

The old man stopped, muttered under his breath as he flipped a few pages, narrowed his eyes, scanned, huffed, flipped more, then sighed and looked up at the kid.

“They were occasionally a gassy but, all things considered, happy little kingdom.”  
.

* * *

## But Sam had heard enough by the time he’d emptied most of his plate, so he waited til he heard John - and the unusually quiet Mary - pausing to eat, and before they knew it, he was out of his chair, walking purposefully toward them, scooping up one of the candelabras from the table without breaking stride.

## “ _Stop_ with the all the fish and rum and cabbage stuff, Dad, okay? _Why_ are we all here, and _why_ are you two king and queen, and—-” Sam had cut himself off, because as the candlelight illuminated the area, and he finally saw them completely, he froze, the gulps returning with a vengeance.

## For you see, his parents no longer appeared as they had in his memories, nor as they appeared in the painting; instead, their complexions were a sickly shade of greenish gray, their eyes cloudy, their hair straw-like, sunken cheeks, hands with near-skeletal fingers wrapped with tiny strips of cloth at the joints, and where their skin wasn’t crinkled and withering, it was littered with patches of - to put it kindly - rot.

## “There’s a lot we hav… haaa…. _hhhhaaaa_ ….” Mary began, but had to stop - her jaw had fallen off, plopping into the soup bowl.

## Sam set down the candelabra, planted his hand on the table to steady himself, watched as his father calmly retrieved his wife’s jaw, watched as he blotted it with a napkin, and watched as Mary looked at him lovingly as he crammed it back on til a muted _pop_ hit the air.

## “That’s been happening more often lately,” John commented.

## “Arph murr,” Mary replied.

## And then, after a very manly squeak of a sound, Sam Winchester hit the floor.

* * *

.

 

The kid’s mother came in, a tray full of waffles and bacon and syrup and fruit in her hands, and the story was put on hold while they prepped their feast.

“What part are you guys on?” she asked.

“He’s about to tell me why John and Mary are zombies,” the kid replied.

“Heh, you’re sharp, kid. But they weren’t zombies, not exactly. I’ll have to go back a little bit to keep us going forward.”

“I trust you.”

“Well thank you very much.”

“Mom, this isn’t enough bacon,” the kid said, a touch of puppy beginning to light on his face, but it was shut down by her arched eyebrow.

“Two pieces, young man - this is the most solid thing you’ve had in a week, your belly will riot if you push it too hard too soon.”

The old man tossed a piece onto his plate after she’d turned to leave, putting his finger to his lips and giving his grandson a wink, and once they’d made a dent in their food, he said, “Sam thought he’d keep getting stonewalled by his father, but that wasn’t the case - King John kicked off the need-to-knows with a bang, Sam learning that the goddess Amara was once-upon-a-time watching over the continent.”

“Hey, that’s Mom’s name! Her _real_ name, I mean. Did you and Grandma get it from this story? You named Mom after a _goddess?_ Whoa.”

The old man laughed. “You’re named after somebody special, yourself.”

The kid rolled his eyes. “Grandpa. I’m named after _you_.”

“Gee, thanks, kiddo. Your enthusiasm underwhelms me. But speaking of names, I never told you the apprentice’s name, it’s—-”

“Does it matter?” the kid cut in.

His grandfather considered this briefly, then answered, “No. Guess not.”

“Anyway, why didn’t she beat Rowena? That goddess? Fix the world back to how it was?”

“Rowena wasn’t on the scene for quite awhile - matter of fact, she’d only been there a little while before Sam showed up. And Amara _did_ have a rough-and-tumble side, don’t get me wrong, but she was as concerned about the state of the world as anybody. She should’ve known about it, at the very least seen it coming. Altering worlds was her specialty, and she could wreck them like a champ, too, but she’d been on the wagon for awhile. So, no. No heads on the chopping block til she knew what had happened, and right then? Too many mysteries.”

  
.

* * *

## Amara realized she was trapped moments after her arrival, unable to journey out of the world try as she might, though she was still, by far, the most powerful being of all the inhabitants. So Amara set down some rules, chief of which was that none of the supernaturals should attempt to deal with the hellmouths that had sprung up - one in the mountain regions to the northeast, the other out in the southwestern ocean. It was far too dangerous, she explained. If they were portals as she suspected, they were unstable ones, and could destroy the world with even the mildest of interference. Her goal was to learn more about them, close them if need be, but first she needed to find her brother, who was also a god, because their powers together should have been sufficient to seal the hellmouths.

## One problem: he had mysteriously disappeared. She couldn’t feel his presence in the slightest. She’d searched through the arctic northwestern region, the southern beaches, the desert plains - no luck to be had.

## Amara _had_ managed to contain the smaller of the hellmouths, the one on land, made it into a volcano, but - as she’d predicted - it came with a cost, and that cost was an earthquake, one that created the Cliffs of Profanity (a name she _loathed_ in public and snickered over in private), opened up the channel, and spawned the considerably large swamp, to the east, about a quarter on Florin land, the rest in Guilder. And this considerably large swamp was _not_ , she soon realized, an ordinary one. It _was_ , in fact, a considerably large piece of Purgatory, and with it came a considerably large amount of Purgatory exiles.

## Nevertheless, the continent lived in peace, Amara noting folks dropping in - humans and supernaturals, alike - randomly as the years passed. Strange thing for the supernaturals was that any strength, any power they normally had was on the fritz, and _that_ was random, too, came along with any kick-ups from the ocean hellmouth, which looked like a swirling hurricane of a furnace. The upshot was that Amara hadn’t had much trouble out of them, they were appropriately intimidated by her, not to mention the hellmouth.

## The downside was when she noticed small changes in the landscape anytime the hellmouth had a tantrum, plus one _big_ change: at the most northern point of the continent, beyond a vast, snow-capped mountain range, further than any of the population could’ve gotten, an aurora had appeared, and beyond _that_ lay darkness, a pitch black that Amara could not see through, nor could she pass it, not even a toe - and Amara knew from darkness.

## And then she had the sinking feeling that she knew _exactly_ what it was - much like a chunk of Purgatory had been released, this could very likely be a portion of the Empty. She theorized that perhaps a bit of Heaven had been coughed up into this world, as well, the rumors she caught wind of regarding angels old and new roaming about all but confirming it, but if they _were_ there, well, they were doing a damn fine job of concealing themselves from her radar.

## And _then_ she began to wonder if it wasn’t that her brother was missing, or that he hadn’t yet arrived, but instead was playing the same gambit as his angels - that he was in hiding. This annoyed her, his games, as they weren’t new, sprightly beings, after all, and hide-and-seek was for children. He _often_ acted like a child, and perhaps she’d be better off gathering all the supernaturals to pool their powers, work on repairing the world together. Still, she missed him terribly.  She needed him, and she’d take him any way she could get him, annoyances and all.

## The need compounded when Rowena arrived on the scene, as the witch didn’t hesitate to do what Amara had debated on doing for herself, that is, gathering a circle of former allies, current enemies, _anyone_ who would be willing to go along with her plan to overthrow the persons Amara had set up as rulers over the divided continent, go after those who would stand in their - that, is _her_ \- way of harnessing the potential power of the hellmouth. And their first order of business was nuking the goddess’ powers, just enough so that she could keep the hellmouth-turned-volcano in check, and not much more. No one but herself and the kings and queens of Florin and Guider knew about the Empty in the north, and Amara had to be very careful not to let on that her power was more depleted than estimated. It would frighten the population and panic them, and - to be sure - give Rowena and her coven a real chance at finishing her off for good.

## Amara was nothing if not crafty, though - her power would regenerate, she was certain, and part of her admired Rowena and her coven’s ingenuity. They _were_ , methodologies and motivations aside, all working for the same endgame, to get their lives back on track. So she made the would-be queen a promise: she'd recuse herself from her watcher and protector duties, isolate herself in the charred, desolate wasteland of the volcano area, give Rowena exactly one decade without her interference, if and only if the witch would abide by Amara’s conditions. There were two things that would ensure her benevolence. First, Rowena was to use her powers for a greater purpose - if she wanted to be in charge, then it was her job to unite the continent, humans and otherworldly folks alike. Following the reply of a scoff, Amara may have intimated a permanent holiday to the inside of the volcano if Rowena did not agree to the deal. Rowena accepted the terms.

## And it was then that Amara worked a bit of a miracle before she retired, giving a sermon on her volcanic mount, as it were. Rowena knew the conditions, but the second condition was shared with all. Amara assured the populations of Florin and of Guilder, those humans and otherworldly folks alike, that in her absence, things would stay as they were with regard to the rulers of the lands. She wouldn’t allow them to be dominated by just one person, that there must be balance. Only a pair could rule, a pair who loved each other dearly, were loyal to each other, and would vow to protect those around them at all costs, even if it meant unspeakable personal loss.

## Now, that’s what Amara _said_ ; what Rowena _heard_ was that she’d have to find herself a partner and get hitched if she had any hope of pulling off her plan of getting to and exploiting the power of the hellmouth, which her advisers - with their limited knowledge - assured her led to hell, seeing as how the other _must’ve_ led to Purgatory, and they figured a portal to heaven wouldn’t have been a swirling eye of fire and fury. Rowena agreed, but she intended on finding out herself, and she knew she’d need even _more_ power.

## Access to hell and its inhabitants was key, she believed, to completing her plan as they would have no hesitation with…. well, raising hell, keeping the human populous distracted, collect souls, starting trouble with the supernaturals, distracting those _not_ allegiant to Rowena as a free gift with purchase, as it were. So, to begin, her coven was tasked with rounding up an army, present demons and other creatures alike. Then they’d get started on Guilder, rounding up any powerful beings _there_ for the army, take _that_ throne, and thereby gain the resources needed by which to go to whatever was left of the other continents - assuming there _were_  other continents - take them over, too, accumulate enough juice to be unstoppable.

## Put simply, it was a story as old as time: the villain wanted to take over the world - first this one and, should they be able to reverse whatever had happened, the real one, as well.

## She wasn’t stupid, that Rowena. Her son, who had arrived at some point just after the decade of freedom she’d been granted, was her closest competition, true, and she didn’t trust Abaddon or Lucifer in the slightest but, she figured, _the enemy-of-my-enemy_ and all that. While the coven did as they were told, Rowena and Abaddon and Lucifer, meanwhile, were busy strategizing on how best to go about overthrowing the persons Amara had seated on the thrones of Florin and Guilder following the earthquake that divided the continent.

## The Kings and Queens had been clued-in on Amara’s power fluctuations, the absence of her brother, and everything else, and she needed wise souls to help her watch over the others while she searched for answers. John and Mary fit the bill, and though they found her choice for Florin’s rule initially a little surprising, they realized it did make sense, seeing as how - best their respective advisers could track - the bulk of the supernaturals were arriving in Florin, and a supernatural leader was ideal.  The countries quickly fell into a friendly peace and, despite their differences, the couples fell into a quick friendship, traveling to one another’s kingdoms regularly to discuss any issues of import, more often than not agreeing immediately and spending the rest of their time together sharing stories, reminiscing on their past lives and, as haphazard as their new world was, being thankful for any bit of extra time they’d been given.

## The King and Queen of Florin had one particular thing in common with the King and Queen of Guilder, and that was how they were taken away from their loves far too early. Cain and Colette were their names, and though Cain had been rumored to be a real piece of work in his younger days, Colette - and his unending love for her - had softened him, made him less likely to strike out and more likely to be found communing with the common folk, chatting with the farriers and smithies in taverns at close of day, sitting with farmer’s wives in kitchens while they prepared dinner, assisting with shucking corn and kneading dough.

## Colette was charitable, and a great advocate for women’s rights - she didn’t hold court, the only balls and celebrations that were held taking place in the capital’s square, where everyone was welcome. She encouraged widows and maidens to start businesses, helped finance them, and if the women wanted to get in the trenches, be it in Florin’s modest army, or serve in the townships’ law enforcement? _Do it_ , said Queen Colette, _and you’ll have my full support._

## All of which made every citizen quite bereft when they learned Colette had been killed by an assassin, in her very bedroom, in the home her King had built for them with his own two hands, and they were frightened when Cain went mad, razed the home he loved, then he placed the body of the wife he loved even more in a small boat, wrapped in the finest cloth and adorned with the flowers she’d grown and tended to for years, filling the empty spaces, and pushed her out to sea, no ceremony, no time for the populous to mourn, to comfort him, because he was suddenly gone. And as they had no children, Rowena seized the throne.

## What they _didn’t_ know, of course, was that the assassin was the demon Abaddon, who had a less-than-amicable shared past with Cain and was happy to oblige, and she was happier still when the killing - a favorite pastime of hers, regardless of place or time - was delayed slightly, as Cain had burst into the room, drawn his blade, and Abaddon waited til it was almost in her belly to pull Colette into its path, a repeat of their last dance, back in the world that was.

## The coven thought Cain might kill himself, and when he didn’t - when he only took his blade to the hand which stabbed his queen, when it appeared he was going to journey to the mountains to become a recluse - the risk he’d return and attempt to take back the throne at some point was too great, Rowena decided, after convening with her ever-growing coven. And whether they killed Cain remained a mystery. All anyone knew was that he was gone.

## It was then she turned her sights on John and Mary, cursing them to be revenants following the coven’s dark magic castings that should have left them dead - and _did_ , briefly - only they were assisted just in time by a certain pair of miracle workers from Florin, leaving them in a slow state of decay, but _not_ under Rowena’s control. John and Mary feared it had gotten their life-savers killed, as they refused the offer of amnesty. But _their_ fear wasn’t for themselves, rather the retribution Rowena would bring upon Florin for their _heresy_ , as she called it.

## It was at that point the coven wasted no time in reverting the entire continent into the aforementioned cosplay nightmare, make powers even more fickle, all to limit the chance of defectors to Florin and limit the abilities of those who may entertain the thought of a coup. The damage Rowena had done had only taken the better part of one year, and those in the supernatural know were gravely concerned over what the next nine would bring. John’s story was now complete, and Sam was now caught up to present day.

## And as Sam’s father told him this story, he remained, from start to end, in an admitted state of disbelief. No one was sure exactly how long they’d been in this world, but it was clear that it wasn’t a uniform transition, everyone becoming aware over time of the newcomers dropping in randomly, just as Amara had observed. And that choice of words, _“this world”_ , caught Sam’s attention, so he asked what exactly his father meant, the answer being that it was John and Mary’s belief, based upon the wisdom of their advisers, that this was _not_ , in fact, their world with some sort of curse placed upon it. They felt certain this was a different plane of existence _altogether_ , one where no one aged, no one grew ill, no one - at least, not _naturally_ , not that anyone _knew_ of, that is - died. And other than continue on with their unanswered prayers to Amara, no one seemed to know what to do about it.

## John and Mary had been working for upwards of half a century on how to set things back to the way they were. The trouble of Rowena further dashed their hopes. But the arrival of their son renewed them tenfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. -Nash


	7. Shoes, Ships, Sealing Wax, Cabbages & Kings (Pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kid continues to learn how it was that one Sam Winchester finally had to face his destiny & become a king.

 

The kid was, to put it mildly, frustrated.

“I don’t get why Amara…. Grandpa, she’s a goddess! And she let Rowena get away with all that junk, and what she did to John and Mary, and… and… Grandpa!”

“Amara wanted to give her a chance,” his grandfather said with a small shrug - and the casual nature appeared to amp up the kid’s ire.

“But what about all Rowena had done? Before? I mean, she didn’t just _start_ doing crazy stuff in the new world, did she? The part where… and you said… and I mean, she _had_ to have —”

“Listen, listen - Amara knew what Rowena had been up to back in their old world, sure. But parts of it weren’t all bad. Rowena had a tough life, and —”

“But Grandpa —”

“— _aaaand_ Amara knew what it felt like to not be given a chance.”

“Whatta you mean?”

“It was part of a falling out she’d had with her brother. They were working on… ah, _projects…_ together, and he…. well, just put it this way: he really screwed the pooch. Honestly, it’s a wonder she ever forgave him. In a lot of ways, he didn’t believe he _deserved_ her forgiveness.”

“This is _different_ , though! Who gets Rowena in the end? Who kills her? Does Sam? Dean? The woman in black? WHO?!?!”

“No one kills Rowena - she lives.”

“You mean she _wins?_ Jeez, Grandpa! What did you read me this thing for!?”

The old man eyed the kid over his reading glasses, raised an eyebrow, and closed the book, saying, “You know, you’ve been very sick, and you’re taking this story very seriously. I think we better stop now.” And with that, he began to stand.

The kid’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, reached out and grasped his grandfather’s arm. “No!” he insisted. “I’m okay. I’m okay, I promise - sit down. All right? I’ll listen if you wanna tell me more about Amara and her brother, and whatever else, I _swear._ ”

After a quick once-over, wherein the kid made himself sit back and feign relaxation - despite the flexing feet and jittery legs moving under the covers - the old man took his seat.

“Well, not much to it. Amara understood that balance was the key, and she knew it because she’d been lonely ever since this whole mess started. Like I told you, they’d been separated for awhile. Hadn’t been too long before all this that she and her brother had finally patched up their fight - and boy, was it a whopper, one that had kept them apart for a very, _very_ long time. And then there they were, split up all over again.”

“What was the fight about?”

“Oh, the usual - you’ve got little sisters, you know how it goes. Didn’t see things the same way. And they _were_ different, sure, but two sides of the same coin. They were night and day, some would’ve said. Like that old poem, the one with the walrus and the carpenter and the oysters.”

The kid stared at him blankly, and the old man sighed, muttered the mandatory _kids these days_ , then began to recite from memory:

.

~ * ~

 _The sun was shining on the sea,_  
_Shining with all his might_  
_He did his very best to make_  
_The billows smooth and bright_  
_And this was odd, because it was_  
_The middle of the night._  
_The moon was shining sulkily,_  
_Because she thought the sun_  
_Had got no business to be there_  
_After the day was done_  
_“It’s very rude of him,” she said,  
“To come and spoil the fun.”_

~ * ~

.

“So those are euphemisms for—”

“Allegories.”

“Yeah, whatever, but I get it - Amara wanted to make sure somebody was there to keep Rowena from being too crazy, right? Like… yin-yang stuff.”

The old man nodded. “That’s what I’d think. Rowena _had_ always been the suspicious sort, bit of a loner. Things can go sideways when a person has no one around to call them on it when they’re being a dick.”

“Grandpa!” the kid exclaimed, laughing.

The old man chuckled right along with him. “ _Dictator_. You didn’t let me finish.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The point is, Amara and her brother had learned the hard way that even with the ups-and-downs, they loved each other dearly, and would do anything for each other, even when they disagreed or got angry. If she had to step away, she was going to make sure the necessary boundaries were in place for Rowena to _hopefully_ learn the same lesson. It’s tough going it alone, kiddo. And if you’re lucky enough to have someone to walk through the tough times with you, well - best hold on tight. Try your damnedest not to let go.”

.

* * *

 

## Though it was still years away from either of them knowing, Sam agreed with Dean on the shoe situation, and Guilder was - thankfully - much more practical in terms of attire than Florin. There were as many varieties of proper footwear as there were cabbage dishes, and the room off of his suite that the servants called his “wardrobe” (which was, it should be noted, about double the size of his bedroom at the bunker) beared it out.

## There were everyday boots, riding boots, dress boots, ones that landed above-the-ankle, hit mid-calf, went over-the-knee, and then the one pair which made him happiest. Royal or not, he insisted upon work boots, and on a given day you could find the Prince of Guilder helping with repairs, moving furniture so the servants could clean, retrieving for the small-of-stature cook any high-residing ingredients from the pantry when his assistants had left him high-and-dry…. that is, _not_ -so-high-and-with-dry-chicken.

## As time went on, Sam was wearing through pairs upon pairs of these custom work boots the shoemakers provided, and with fair regularity, enough to where they’d almost scold him over his apologetic, sheepish demeanor when he’d approach the workshop, show them the worn soles. He couldn’t help it; he couldn’t rest. And he had no sneakers for running, but perhaps this was a good thing, because had he ran til he’d worn _those_ out, he’d have lost precious time, perhaps never discovering the peace provided by his walks in the gardens.

## While Guilder was in the south, the climate was nice, and for the most part, it wasn’t terribly hot. The sea breeze kept everything fresh, often blowing the crisp salt air clear into the mainland, enough so that that Sam could feel it on his cheeks in the spring and summer when out on his walks through the large gardens at Winchester Manor, the modest (by royal standards, he supposed) grey stone castle he now called home. It was located not all that far from the jagged cliffs that divided them from Florin, and in the wintertime, they’d occasionally get a small amount of snow. It was then Sam let his beard grow (which, it should be noted, he chose to keep once he’d nicked up his face with straight razors enough times), and he’d don huge fur cloaks, the taller pairs of his boots, try to keep up his walks, but they’d grow shorter, lessening as the honeysuckle disappeared, something he hadn’t noticed happening at the time.

## The walks had started after he’d stayed up all night with John, after the first dinner he’d had with both his parents in ages, back when he’d arrived. He’d camped out in front of the fireplace on a plush rug, sitting criss-crossed, sipping wine, hanging on every word his father said, like a child being read a bedtime story, and he was _absorbing_ every one of those words, not asking as many questions as he normally would - inquisitive minds never settle, after all - because he’d gone from being shocked to feeling generally numb. And at dawn, he’d excused himself, asked someone or another to point him to the nearest door.

## It hadn’t been quite summer, according to John, but turns out castles stay fairly cold year-round (good thing, too, given how his parents’ current condition required just the right balance of both coolness and humidity), and Sam was pleasantly surprised to find the the weather was as close to perfect as it gets, not to mention the ideal setting: the courtyard and large gardens were awash with brightly-colored plants and trees and flowers. He tried to take it all in, take all of _everything_ in, but he wasn’t ready. Not quite yet.

## So, Sam walked.

## And, as he _did_ eventually come to notice, it wasn’t the walks that were comforting, it was all that honeysuckle, growing wild, taking over innumerable trellises, crawling up the wall by his suite’s terrace, tangling around itself over archways (one group in particular, the ones that formed a sort-of tunnel, that he recognized from the painting of his parents), and every time he caught the initial barely-there whiff of their scent, he’d suddenly feel his stiffened shoulders drop, stress-tightened muscles relax, and in what became a well-practiced routine, he’d let himself close his eyes, take in the first deep breath he’d likely had on a given day, opening his eyes slowly as he exhaled. He couldn’t quite put his finger on _why_ it soothed him, but it _did_ , and even with the frequent walks, he’d find himself out on that terrace more and more as time plodded along.

##  Though a surprising amount of the yellow blossoms toughed it out til the start of the fall (particularly the ones on his terrace, as if they knew of his need), in the coldest parts of that first winter, when the honeysuckle had taken their leave, Sam would sit at the desk in his suite, the small one he’d placed by the window so he could look out over the frosted garden, and he’d study. The desktop was never _not_  littered with maps, books, papers, the drink and food those ever-fussing servants would plop in front of him, and he’d reach for it on auto-pilot with one hand, the other perpetually engaged with taking notes, munching and sipping as he pored over what lore he could find, determined to discover something he could do - _anything_ he could do - to get everyone out of this world.

## Those kindly servants had also given him a touching gift. They’d found a photo of him with Dean, one from when they were young - one he assumed Mary had taken from the bunker when last she was there - and had the royal artist make a tiny portrait version, then had the carpenters whittle a frame from the finest cedar, and he’d awakened to find it on his desk when spring was once more turning to summer, on the morning of the first anniversary of his arrival in their kingdom. Sam would glance at it when he sat down to work, then tilt it away from his line of sight, but _did_ take care to adjust it back to a front-and-center position before the candles were extinguished, when exhaustion pulled him away from his searching. He didn’t want to offend, while simultaneously wanting to avoid distraction.

## He couldn’t let himself think about what might have become of his brother; Sam had to trust that Dean lived, because, after all - surviving was what Winchesters did best.

* * *

 

.

“Wait a second, Grandpa - I thought Sam hated Dean.”

“Oh, no - Sam could never hate Dean, and that goes both ways.”

“But Sam left him all alone.”

“Kid, you gotta understand - Dean had done some leaving of his own. And believe me, _more_ than once.”

“So Sam was paying him back? Because Dean’s the reason the apprentice left? And got killed?”

The old man sighed. “You want me to read this, or not?”

.

* * *

 

##  _Another_ item on Sam’s desk - one at which he frowned when it managed to wiggle its way out from under things he’d purposefully piled atop it - was a copy of a royal decree John had drawn up exactly six weeks before Sam’s one year anniversary. That year had been filled with lessons on Guilder’s history (myth and fact alike), on riding, on mastering the rudimentary weaponry at their disposal (broadswords, to be specific), and while he’d admit he _did_ find it interesting, albeit time-consuming, the lessons which vexed him in particular were those on how to be a king. The decree had been given to him for his review - there was nothing to it, really, just a statement of the handover of the reign of the kingdom to Sam - but it lacked one final piece, a date, this part being left for him to decide, and it weighed heavy on his heart, for two very important reasons.

## The first: Sam had long been known as the vessel Lucifer was to inhabit when the fallen archangel resumed his dominion over hell, and - very likely - the world, and had been known as such since his birth. He, quite reasonably, feared that since demons walked openly, for the most part, amongst the rest of the population in this very unusual place, that once it was public knowledge he was on the scene, well… he couldn’t foresee any result other than disaster. Whether Lucifer roamed the land or not, he couldn’t say, but he knew the demons, their tenacity, their loyalty (and their fear) when it came to their maker. They could mobilize, they could attack, countless lives could be lost - and for _good_ , if what happened to Cain and Colette, and was _actively_  happening to his parents, was any indication.

## And _that_ was the second reason: his parents were growing more fragile by the day. The cook still made them broths, though their appetites had long disappeared, and the royal pair were accompanied by at least a half-dozen caregivers around the clock. Their mysterious advisers (who Sam had _still_ yet to meet) had apparently exhausted every practical and magical resource at their disposal. Mary was all but bedridden by this point; she’d come to be their very own Humpty Dumpty, and voluntarily taken to staying in her chambers so as not to burden anyone with the never-ending task of putting her back together again. As for John, the hours he spent out of bed were decreasing more and more by the week.

## But the curse had no impact upon his blunt nature.

## “Why haven’t you chosen a date to make it official?” John demanded, staring Sam down from his seat on the throne; the coughs that succeeded the question even had a heavy tone.

## “ _Why?!_ ” Sam repeated. “When have I had time to think about what all this will _really_ mean for me —”

## “Right, Sam, sure. This ain’t my first day.”

## “Okay, let’s talk about _my_ days - you’ve got me practicing trade negotiations and memorizing geography and shipping routes and getting fitted for twenty different outfits and twelve pairs of shoes and eight kinds of armor and five types of saddles and chopping cabbage heads off of dummies with swords, and they’re _heavy_ swords, Dad! _Nobody_ can manage to, I dunno, _smelt_ a shotgun? And I am so _sick_ of the damned cabbage, and I miss beer that doesn’t taste like _ass_ , and —"  

## "Oh, that right? _That’s_ what you care about? You’re not putting this off because you’re scared, because the great Sam Winchester’s never been scared a day in his life?”

## Sam’s expression danced dangerously close to a pout, because it didn’t matter the situation, dead or alive, alternate world or their own - John Winchester could read him like a book. And the ailing king planted his withering hands against the arms of the throne, pushed himself upright - not to his full height, but close enough - and his cloudy eyes bore through his son, sharper than Sam’s collection of swords.

## “Why don’t you go out to the garden, help out, work off some of this nasty attitude, and see if you can’t find a better one before you come see me tonight with an answer —”

## “Dad —”

## “— because you _are_ going to give me an answer, Sam. I didn’t have to give you a choice, but I did, and if you don’t take me up on it, I haven’t got much time left to decide who to leave in charge.”

## “Stop talking like you and Mom are gonna —”

## “WE _ARE!_ ” John bellowed, and in such an unusually strong voice - at least, of late - it startled the caregivers stationed nearby. “We _won’t_ be here, we _won’t_ be able to help, and whether you wear the crown or not, I’m going to make sure your head’s out of your ass before I leave this castle, be it under my own power or in a coffin! Now _go!_ ”

## Sam stomped all the way out of the throne room, through countless hallways, clean out the door and across the courtyard, fists clenched and jaw set, pace not waning til he was at the far end of the garden, where the first blooms of the honeysuckle lived. There was a slight chill in the air, and Sam shivered, wishing he’d grabbed a cloak. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just the spring breeze. The moment he took the throne, Sam believed he was effectively giving himself to hell, and maybe that was the place for him; curse aside, the minute he chose the date for his coronation, he’d be the cause for his parents’ absence in his and Dean’s lives all over again.

## Sam stared at the tiny cream-and-gold spots peeking out from the greenery. He’d been told that the honeysuckle had started with just a few sprigs that Colette had brought for Mary on one of the early visits many years prior, and they were hearty, indeed. They’d begun to blossom ahead of schedule, he thought, and he was running fingertips over the petals, deciding whether or not to take a handful back to place on his desk, when he frowned. It was early, and the gardeners weren’t out in full force quite yet, and he’d purposefully gone to the far end, where the archways from the portrait were, to avoid them.

## And yet, he had the distinct feeling he was not alone.

## “Samuel Winchester, as I live and breathe.”

## Sam’s hand froze in place, he gasped, and he whipped around at the sound of the very familiar voice, his eyes going wide.

## “ _Missouri?!_ ”

## So it was, Sam had company for his garden walk this day, and walk they did, for hours, his psychic friend filling him in on the supernatural end of the goings-on in this world, and there was _no_ lack ofgoings-on, there were much more goings and ons than he  _ever_ could have imagined, which was saying a  _lot_. But, the initial order of business had Missouri convincing Sam that he was  _not,_ in fact _,_ amongst the resurrected dead, at least, not  _this_ time. Then she went on to share that she was part of his parents' mysterious inner circle, though the circle had dwindled. It seemed that her granddaughter, Patience, also a psychic, and the Winchesters' close friends, the sheriffs Donna and Jody, as well as Jody's daughter, Alex, were once upon a time castle residents.

## “We’ve got some more folks in Florin —”

## “Like spies?” Sam asked.

## “ _Exactly_ like spies, honey,” Missouri replied. “Donna’s one of them, but we haven’t heard from her in years. And Alex had to be put in hiding. There’s renegade vampirates, ones who never would agree to the arrangement your parents made, they were draining and turning faster than we could keep up. Then one night, when she was coming back from scouting along the coastline, they snatched her.”

## “What?! Is Alex safe, where did you —”

## Missouri put a hand on his arm. “Hang on now, don’t go jumping on your white horse. She’s safe. Jody rescued her, and she’s staying with trusted friends, way up near the mountains north of Florin. I sent Patience with her, to help them keep watch for anything that may come looking for revenge or some other such nonsense.” Missouri paused, and sorrow came across her face.

## “When’s the last time you heard from Patience?” Sam asked gently.

## Missouri shook her head. “It’s not that. I _do_ miss her, but I can feel her, and I know she’s in good hands. It’s that…” Missouri sighed, then looked him dead in the eye. “I’m just gonna tell you plain: Jody never came back. She got Alex off the ship, then… I’d tried, Patience tried - we just couldn’t track her, couldn’t sense her _anywhere_. The captain of those creeps? They call him the Dread Pirate Roberts. He’s a nasty piece of work, Sam. He may turn some of his captives, but the way we hear it - he doesn’t leave survivors.”

## Sam felt himself flush. He’d heard this name, and not since he’d arrived; he'd gotten wind of  _this_ particular villain  _before_. Missouri shot him an odd look, picking up on his change in mood, but he brushed it off, asked her to tell him more about who _else_ from their other life had been transported to the new world. And the answer was that while Rowena’s magic interfered with a clear picture of who might be in Florin, as far as Guilder went, only Pamela (an angel-blinded medium who was a former comrade of the Winchester brothers), and Gilda (a kind fairy from another realm with whom they’d briefly interacted) remained.

* * *

 

.

“Kind fairy? So there’s _not-nice_ fairies?” the kid cut in, and received a huff from his grandfather for his trouble.

“What happened to promising to listen?” asked the old man.

.

* * *

 

## Now, Sam hadn’t been (at least, not _very_ , the fainting aside) surprised to see his formerly dead parents, nor was he all that shocked to hear that Cain and his wife Colette had been resurrected as well; Amara had proven she was capable of such in the past. But knowing it went beyond them caused his mind to race, scrolling through the large roster of all the people who had come in and out of his life, dead and alive, friends and enemies, good and bad. Missouri confirmed there had been no word on Lucifer as of yet - admittedly, Sam’s primary worry, which she knew full well - and she reassured him that their radar, as it were, was on constant watch for any sign of Dean’s presence.

## “I know you wish he were here, that you could do this together. I won’t lie, this is gonna be tough. But, baby, you’ve got plenty on your side.”

## And Missouri was right, because beyond herself and the snarky medium and the helpful fairy, and the waters of a magical well —-

* * *

 

.

“The _what!?_ ” the kid blurted out, and was given a _look_.

.

* * *

 

## —- and a small but impressive army, and a stable economy, and the peace with the outcast residents of the Holy Fire Swamp —-

* * *

 

.

“ _Wait!_ It’s called the _what?_ You didn’t call it that earlier! _See?_ I’m _listening!_ ” the kid interrupted, though the only response he received was the old man increasing his volume.

“AAAAAND!”

.

* * *

 

## —- and the loyalty of the people of Guilder, there was one particular item on Missouri’s list that caught the would-be king of the land-locked-but-essentially-a-giant-island’s attention. Sam Winchester did not merely have the alliance with the vampirates, and dock after dock of fishing vessels and - as he’d learned in his year of studies - modest, but quite capable, on-call naval flotillas. Oh, but no.

## You see, what Sam Winchester had was an armada.

## With _this_ piece of information, his body caught up with his brain and kicked into high gear, and he excused himself, rushing back into the castle (though not before rushing _back_ -back briefly, giving Missouri a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek), asking servants along the way to ask other servants to find the servants who knew how to get him outfitted appropriately, and by the time they were through with him, he looked like a crowned prince should, top to bottom, tips to toes, so that when he entered the throne room to speak with his father hours ahead of his deadline, John’s jaw dropped (not in the _literal_ sense; Mary had cornered that market) because he was both shocked and impressed.

## And _proud_.

## “I’ll do it,” said Sam, and as if to emphasize his already-evident seriousness, he walked forward, unrolling the decree he’d retrieved from under the most recent pile of books on his desk, smoothing it out atop the small table nearby.

## “I take it you ran into Missouri,” John commented.

## “Yes, sir,” Sam answered. Then he turned, made a small motion with his hand, and the servant who had accompanied him into the room nodded and brought over a full inkwell and a fluffed quill, setting them down next to the parchment. Sam dipped the nib, blotted, then met his father’s eye.

## “I sense there’s a catch?” John asked.

## “One condition.”

## “Just the one?”

## “Yes, sir. There’s a faction of vampirates separate from the majority, from our allies, and I’m positive they have information I need, if I’m going to… if I’m going to succeed. This group should be shut down, and I think capturing their leader would be a good start.”

## John’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t disagree that it should be on your list of priorities. But there’s something else - you want to share with the class?”

## Sam opened his mouth, but closed it again, thinking. And after a beat or two, he said, “I’d already heard of this Roberts, their leader. During the hunt I was on when I woke up here. He’s done more than kidnap Alex, and… and murder Jody... murder our people.”

## “Our people,” John repeated quietly. Then, louder: “Tell me what I can do for you, son.”

## “I’d like… I _want_ the four fastest ships in the armada to be given orders. Send them north, south, east, and west. They are to find these vampirates, jail the crew. But Captain Roberts should be brought to me.”

## John considered this, but only briefly, saying, “Sam, the armada isn’t huge. Our spies tell us that Rowena has begun assembling her own, and that their docks and their crews are growing by the day. They have spies in Guilder, no doubt, and they’ve built watchtowers on their borders, and it — it’s _very_ unlikely she won’t know our resources are depleted. Not to mention this is not… it’s not my style. To send our army, our navy, our people to look for trouble.”

## Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Dad, I know you’ve changed some since you’ve been here and all, but —”

## John chuckled. “I know, I know. Looking for trouble is _exactly_ my style, but it doesn’t fly when you’re king.” A pause. “Is that why you want _me_ to issue the orders? So they won’t question you from day one?”

## Sam shook his head. “Not the questioning part, I want our friends to call me on it if I’m getting crazy ideas, help me keep my head on straight. It’s more… it’s more that I haven’t earned the kingdom’s faith yet. They need all the faith they can get. And I guess… so do I.”

## The throne room was pin-drop silent for more than a few moments, enough to where Sam was a millisecond away from worry, when John gave his answer.

## “Write up four copies of what you want done. The stationers can give you the appropriate materials, they'll affix my seal. Then bring them to me, and I’ll sign off."  

## Sam’s veneer of confidence slipped ever-so-slightly, and he asked, "You’ll do it?”

## John nodded. “I swear it will be done.”

## Sam gave a single, firm nod in return, followed by writing a date then scrawling his full name on the declaration without hesitation; he would assume the throne before the month was out.  And then - to everyone’s surprise - his training went on full display, and the occupants of the throne room watched as Sam took one step backward, executed an efficient and perfectly-postured bow at the waist, took several more steps backward (and in an impossibly straight line, it should be noted), waiting to spin on his heel, putting his back to the king only when he had crossed the threshold. He walked past the servants littering the hallways with such poise, they actually stopped cold in their work or their chatter, turning to face him, but casting their eyes down, giving small, silent curtsies and modest bows.

## When Sam entered his suite, he closed and bolted the door immediately, leaned against it, and took a moment for more than a few heaving breaths, because for as well as he was doing - so far - pulling off this king thing, he was feeling almost groggy, like he’d just woken up on that forever-ago Tuesday all over again. His eyes drifted to his desk, lingering on the tiny portrait of himself and Dean, and near it, the small bottle filled with long-wilted honeysuckle, and he found himself wondering why he hadn’t thrown it out. And right then, that nagging subconscious of his pushed through the fog:

##  _It’s because you’d be throwing her away._

## “What?” Sam snapped loudly.

##  _It’s because you want to keep her close._

## “What?” Sam asked softly.

##  And right _then_ , it hit him. True, he’d become aware the garden walks faded with the honeysuckle, and he’d become aware the smell was of comfort, but it wasn’t til that very second the connection was made, and he found himself lost in memories. He’d never asked her, asked if it was something about the detergent she used, or her lotion, or maybe perfume…

## Or maybe it was just _her_.

## He’d kept burying them, his feelings for his one-time apprentice, here in the new world as he had in the old, keeping her from his thoughts, from his _dreams_ , but it hadn’t worked. He hadn’t realized what it _was_ , what it all _meant_ , until suddenly, he did.

## And that was when the letters began.

## Every day (and often, every night), Sam would write letters to her, some long, some short, and he'd fold them carefully, place them into envelopes, twirl the stick of wax in the candle’s flame, seal the flaps with a stamp of the Winchester crest, write her name on the back, then tuck them away in the desk’s narrow drawers, and though they each contained a variety of little facts he thought she’d have found interesting, his sentences always seemed to come out the same way.

## .

##  _~ The new library opened today, it’s full of books we’d sit and talk about for hours, and I love you. ~_

##  _  
~ I’ve become a good rider - my horse is all black except for a streak of grey in his mane, and I love you. ~_

##  _  
__~ I found a stone in the courtyard before the snow came, it’s the exact color of your favorite sweater, and I love you. ~_

## .

## You know. Like that.

## His coronation was modest, as was his crown, though it felt heavy. The following month, Gilda put his parents into a deep sleep, the only solution to halting their deterioration, and word of their “death” was announced. Following a funeral march to the mausoleum that was erected just beyond the large archways where the best of the honeysuckle grew, they were interred. Gilda would enchant Pamela as well, making her appear to be a statue, just another piece of stone, unmoving and still, keeping silent guard.

## The crowd dispersed, the servants were dismissed, until the only ones remaining were the king, the psychic, the medium, and the fairy, all solemn, all quiet. Pamela broke the gloomy mood by turning to Sam and giving him a sharp slap to the rear, which made him gasp.

## “Don’t get your drawers in a knot, I’ll keep an eye on ‘em, your majesty - _both_ eyes, in fact,” she told him, tacking on a wink for good measure.

## “Cute,” Sam said wryly, and he smiled, but then he drew her into a tight hug, thanking her twice and gearing up for a third round, possibly more, when she squirmed away.

## “Nothing’ll get close to them, I am your own personal dragon and thorns, all rolled into one hot package,” Pamela promised, gave him a kiss right on the lips that was actually fairly chaste by her standards, then she sat on a slab at the back of the crypt, right between the enormous carved coffins that held the sleeping John and Mary, and once she’d decided on a comfortable position, Pamela looked to Gilda, saying, “Lay it on me, godmother.”

## Sam had turned to Missouri while Gilda opened her spellbook and got to work, his expression doing nothing to conceal his emotions.

## "I’m not going anywhere,” Missouri said firmly, grasping both his hands, _her_ expression showing nothing but resolve. “I’m not doing any leaving. Not this time."

## Gilda approached them, closing her book as she did so, and said, “It’s done.”

## With that, the mausoleum was sealed - both traditionally _and_ magically - and Sam’s reign truly began.

## Sam had delivered a touching eulogy, there hadn’t been a dry eye across the population, and it wasn’t long before the people of Guilder grew to love their new king. Summers and falls and winters came and went. Sam’s inner circle began to grow as Missouri and Gilda continued to locate allies as they arrived in the new world, and his troupe of confidants were indeed an impressive bunch.

* * *

 

.

The kid opened his mouth, but before a word was uttered, the old man held up a hand.

“We’ll. Get. To. Them. Later.”

“Fine,” the kid grumbled.

.

* * *

 

## Missouri’s updates on the status of those ships, those four fastest ships Sam had sent for the vampirates (and, truth be told, that he’d sent for _her_ , if there could be even a speck of a chance she’d been resurrected, as well) grew further and further apart, til Sam told Missouri to not to bother unless she had news. They still had plenty to keep them busy, monitoring Florin - that is, monitoring _Rowena_. And she hadn’t been shy about letting him know that she was aware of his presence.

## A case of his favorite shampoo arrived the night of his coronation with a note of congratulations, a multitude of wreaths were sent for John and Mary’s faux funeral, and crates filled with Florin’s own agricultural marvel - thankfully not cabbage, but wild mushrooms - would arrive with fair regularity, all of which were promptly thrown out. Well. Maybe not _all_ of the shampoo.

## But one thing Rowena had _not_ bestowed was an invitation for Sam to visit, nor had she suggested coming to see him, and he decided to follow her lead. Too much risk there, that she could cast a spell over him. While his trusty advisers speculated on why she hadn’t tried _already_ , Sam opted to file it under the _thank-a-deity-for-small-favors_ category for the time being.  

## And, what with one thing or another, eight years passed.

## All in all, it would take Sam Winchester nigh on a decade to accept his new life, accept his new responsibilities - not to mention accept his shoulder-length hair and full beard - and to accept that those feelings of his, the ones he had for the apprentice, weren’t simply missing her company. He loved her, this conclusion he’d come to long ago, but the past haunted him; he hadn’t acted, and because of it, he had let the love of his life slip away. He _wanted_ to believe that death cannot stop true love, it _couldn’t_ , because of what he _did_ believe: it was more than love, he was _in_ love with her, every piece of him.

## She was all around his very person, from the shiny tips of the crown on his head, to the well-trod soles of his shoes. He could see her standing with him when he gave speeches and christened the newest ships. He could sense her hand guiding his when he swirled warm wax circles across the folds of letter, after letter, after letter. He could hear her laugh when he took out yet another cabbage patch enemy, be it with a sword or a fork. He could feel her squeeze his shoulders when they were tired from bearing the burdens of a king. She was lingering underneath his every thought, his every action, damn near _consuming_ him, just another of those somethings he hadn’t noticed happening, until one day, he suddenly did.

## The realization fueled the young king; he wouldn’t bide his time again. They had a little over a year before the freedom allotted Rowena by Amara was up, and word had long ago spread far and wide that she was on the prowl for a king to sit by her side, for a love of her own - so she _said_ , but Sam knew better. Whoever he ending up being, the poor guy was going to be a pawn. Probably _worse_. As much as Sam liked Rowena, at least, _historically_ , something else he realized was that if she gobbled up all the powers this world had served up on a platter by localizing it in one tidy chunk of land, there was going to be yet another apocalypse on the horizon.

## Missouri was right. Sam had plenty - plenty of lore, plenty of resources, plenty of support, but somewhere deep down, there lived what was possibly the most important realization of all, the one thing he’d noticed from the start: no matter what he had, what he could acquire, it wasn’t going to be enough. Something was missing. The others debated on what could tip the scales solidly in their favor, though for Sam, it wasn’t a question.

## They needed Dean.

.

 

* * *

* * *

##  _*~* And what’s coming up next? *~*_

Let’s review - there are three terrors of the swamp: the holy flame spurts; the lightning sandboxes; and the mysterious inhabitants known as the A.S.S.E.S. Can Dean and the Woman in Black deftly navigate them all, with teamwork and cunning and ingenuity and…. yeah, no, none of that. It’s a hot mess.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


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